


Knock, Listen

by TopJoy



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One, Transformers: War for Cybertron
Genre: Brain Damage, Brain Drama, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Serious Injuries, These tags are incriminating so far, depictions of torture, it's not that bad, mindscape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-14
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2018-09-17 09:32:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 59,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9315635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TopJoy/pseuds/TopJoy
Summary: Jazz is sent to uncover the source of a particularly nasty Decepticon tactical edge on Cybertron -- he finds not just a super computer, but an Autobot wired into it. Can he and Prowl escape burning Praxus and the Decepticons? And can they recover Prowl's memory to find out who turned him over in the first place?(This is my first fic, and I'm gonna admit, I dunno where it's going at all! It's just sort of a writing exercise for me, but it's gotten quite long, so I thought I'd post it. I hope you like it! Bit of a mishmash of G1, Prime, and WFC/FOC)





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Feedback and comments are appreciated! Thanks for reading.

_ Knock and listen. _ Jazz didn't remember who'd told him that particular tidbit, but it was useful advice. Vibrations could tell you just about everything you needed to know about a room – density, shape, placement. Sure – tapping on the walls was a dead giveaway of your position, but the truth was, most mechs in science installations didn't figure anyone'd gotten past the guards. They were too absorbed in their work to pay attention to what might just be a maintenance drone with a pathing error, gently bonking against the inside of a vent.

Jazz rested on his arms, giving the wall a swift knock with one knuckle. There was a lot of ambient noise in the room below him – he had to be loud enough to pierce the veil of returning static. He hadn't heard anybody talking below, hence the need for the tap – there was no need to tap when a vocalizer lit up a room, bouncing around and returning a cacophony of sweet harmonic data. Truly, music to his aurals.

Below him he could tell was some kind of super-computer – not quite Teletraan, but no joke, either, based on the sounds of coolant being pumped through it. And the tap told him it was large on two sides, narrow in the middle. The middle was....hard to discern. He strained his aural sensors – the ambient noise blocked out anything else in the room, but the tap showed him the shape of...pedes? Someone standing in the middle of the computer? No, sitting. But facing away from the computer. That seemed odd.

Still, the tap didn't return any other mechanisms in the room – worth moving to try to get a visual confirmation. Quick and quiet, he slipped along the ventilation shaft, hopping down a T to be closer to the floor and the maintenance hatch. He pressed dainty servos against the hatch, sending a few electromagnetic pulses to tease it into not ratting him out to the security grid, and then quietly popped it open.

The room in front of him matched the description his tap had delivered, but it was only now he realized how big the computer was – the electrostatic hum had blocked out the fact that it stretched into the roof, floor and walls – obviously the room had had to be rebuilt to accommodate it. No mechs other than the two white pedes he could see sticking out from behind the computer, but there were security cameras everywhere. Nothing he couldn't slip by – they were standard, probably for spying on their own mechs, not on intruders. After all, intruders weren't supposed to be able to slip this far into the complex without tripping  _ something _ . Frugal design choice, Jazz figured. Why bother securing the innermost workings of the building if somebody could slip past the outer defenses? If your best couldn't catch 'em, more of the same wasn't going to help.

After spending a few seconds doing a tighter visual scan, Jazz crawled out of the vent and got to his pedes. His attention deflectors were enough to take care of these cameras, so he proceeded through the room with confidence, keeping to the side, out of the line of sight of the mech sitting at the computer while trying to get a better look at him, stopping when he had full view of the mech's legs. He did a quick frame scan and came back with a confirmation for what he'd already figured – standard enforcer frame for Praxus. The white paint was chipped and scratched, in some places all the way down to silver. He leaned around more and spotted a hand, white, gripping the arm of the chair he was seated in so hard there were stress fractures in his servos. And there, confirming his suspicions, was a heavy metal restraint, holding the other mech firm to his seat.

Jazz stepped around, clearing his vocalizer.

“Hey, sorry if you were waitin' long...” he started, but stopped when he realized that the enforcer could not hear him. “Oh, slag.” Now he understood the dip in the middle of the computer.

Prowl's optics were wide and uncannily bright, but completely unseeing. His jaw was clamped shut around a tube that stretched back somewhere behind him, forcing energon down his intake. A thick metal guard had been attached to stop him from chewing through the tube, and it looked like it was starting to buckle as Prowl tried to grind his teeth together. Doorwings were held high, practically vibrating as data from one hemisphere of the computer was punched through his processor, analyzed, and then delivered to the other hemisphere.

Jazz leaned in closer to look at his optics – the energon in the tube was blue, but the tinge of indigo left in his optics said he'd also probably been having regular infusions of the purple stuff. Jazz frowned.

“Alright, buddy. Time to get you out of here,” he muttered, stepping back to check for a control panel. There had to be a way to turn the system off – Prowl looked strained to the point of breaking, so there was no way they could leave him hooked up to the computer  _ all _ the time, or his head would be a puddle of slag by now. A switchboard to Prowl's left. Disengaging the systems would definitely tell security he was here, but he could probably make it look like an emergency shutdown due to a cooling issue rather than jailbreak – which'd slow down the response time a bit, maybe, or at the very least ensure the responders were engineers, not soldiers.

It didn't take much, he discovered, to make a real cooling error. Pinching off one of the cooling lines made the others work harder to compensate, pumping more coolant than the heatsink could recycle. Unpinching the line put further strain on the heatsink and the system went into a brief hibernation to let the heatsink catch up. Pretty hodge-podge cooling system, Jazz figured, but as advanced as the system looked, it definitely wasn't designed to fit in this facility. Had it been moved here from somewhere else, or had this simply been the most suitable place to build it, despite the obvious space and energy compromises? Either way, it was coming down like a shot seeker – Jazz slipped three high powered explosives around the computer. It was going to be loud, angry, and dramatic, that was for sure.

Prowl sat trembling for a second as the flow of information stopped, but then slumped down into the chair, tugging loose some of the cords that held his helm fast to the computer. Jazz quickly stepped over to pry open the restraints, surprised to find that Prowl's struggles had scraped almost all the paint from his arms, and even started to shave the metal beneath. Jazz carefully disconnected his helm from the apparatus holding it in place next, then somewhat unceremoniously tugged several feet of tubing out of his intake.

“Really wired you in there, huh?” he asked. Prowl's optics were online, but he only managed to flex his hands a couple of times before slumping forward into Jazz, looking alarmed. His doorwings had drooped, but they were trembling, twitching erratically.

“Yeah, alright, but we gotta go before this thing turns on. Can you walk?” Jazz asked. No response as he pulled Prowl out of the chair, the mech's knees gave out immediately and Jazz nearly dropped him. “Whoops. You, uh, don't look great,” Jazz murmured, leaning back to look into Prowl's face. It was rigid with terror, but Jazz suddenly realized Prowl was still almost completely unaware of whatever was going on around him – optics white-bright, doorwings twitching as they tried and failed to pick up input. He had to know  _ something  _ was happening – why else look so afraid? But maybe as far as he got was knowing he wasn't hooked into the computer anymore, and whatever that meant was bad.

“No time for check-ups right now, buddy. Let's just hope ya don't drop dead on me, eh?” Jazz started dragging the enforcer across the floor towards the maintenance hatch. Pulling him through the shafts would be a pain, but it'd get him past the first net of security that was inevitably going to close around the core of the computer room.

Prowl shuddered and moved like he was trying to get his legs under him, but the attempts were lame and uncoordinated, amounting to gently scraping his pedes across the floor at odd angles. His cooling systems were uneven – instead of a steady blow and whirr of fans, uneven bursts of hot air gasped out, accompanied by pained surges of vocalizer static. He turned his head left and right, flexed his hands, balling them up into fists and then relaxing them, doorwings twitched and trembled. Focused on his task, it took Jazz a solid click to realize Prowl was trying to fight him off, with about the same effectiveness as a delimbed turbofox.

Jazz pulled the enforcer into the vent, but the struggling continued. Jazz frowned, putting his hands on Prowl's head.

“Sorry, pal. Gonna give you a nice little stasis nap, since I don't think you're up for walking, anyways,” he explained quietly. Prowl tried to shake his head, but the series of sustained electromagnetic pulses slowly muffled his processor until he slipped offline. “Gonna have a pit of a headache when you wake up, mech. Sorry,” he murmured, then started dragging the limp enforcer away through the maintenance shaft.

 

Jazz was halfway out when he found he needed to detonate his explosives, wiping out the computer core. It drew remaining security forces to damage control, scattering and confusing patrols and wiping out the alarms. After that, dragging Prowl outside was no problem, but keeping out of sight as he slowly carried the unconscious mech across the burned out remains of the southeastern portion of Praxus was another task.

Aerial strikes had all but melted Praxus to the ground. The buildings that still stood sagged like tired giants, war weary and revising their options for long, happy lives. The bases had been rendered half molten with the wash of laser fire, and what didn't stand pooled, cracking into long trenches when Cybertron's face turned away from its sun.

The trenches made good spots to hide from surveying Seekers, but the dash from trench to trench was a lot tougher without the use of his vehicle mode. Prowl, at least, hadn't been fully outfitted for combat yet – his upgrades looked like standard enforcer fare, so he wasn't as heavy as he could have been with a battle-enforced frame. Jazz watched two Seekers drift by in silence, searchlights caressing the burned out landscape. He waited for them to pass.

When they did, Jazz skittered out of his hiding spot with Prowl, carrying the mech over one shoulder as he ran to the next bit of cover. Before he could get there, Prowl suddenly wheezed, coughing out heavy vocalizer static. Jazz hopped in surprise before doubling down on his dash, practically throwing the enforcer into the next trench before jumping in after him. The fall was further than he had estimated, and Prowl hit the ground hard, rolling with an uncomfortable popping noise as one of his doorwings dislocated. He opened his mouth to scream, but only managed to hiss out a low tone, buried under another burst of static.

Jazz scrambled back to his own pedes – static or not, it was  _ loud _ . He pulled Prowl up by the arm, looking around for better cover in the trench. This particular fissure was made of the remains of one half-melted structure that had cracked in half as it cooled, and so on both sides was a deep overhang where the inside of a building had formerly been. Little but ash remained, but there was just enough space for Jazz to wedge himself and Prowl in with their backs to the rubble. He jerked the enforcer back, ignoring his injured doorwing in favour of speed.

“Sorry, sorry,” he whispered, pulling Prowl against him.

Prowl was having none of this, it seemed. He thrashed, but it was just as weak as it had been before. But this time the effort took a toll, and Prowl leaned forward, clutching his abdomen, and then purged – not energon, Jazz was surprised to note, but coolant. Worrisome, but honestly lucky – the glow of fresh energon would have been a dead giveaway. Jazz pulled the enforcer back, clamping a hand over his mouth and whispering into his aurals.

“Shh, shh, need ya to be real quiet now,” he hissed. Prowl wheezed painfully, but stopped struggling, leaning back heavily on Jazz.

Thrusters, then footfalls above them. Jazz held Prowl a little tighter as light panned along the crevasse. Melted berths, a vidscreen, two mechs fused into the metal, faces turned away. On top of them the remains of autobots and decepticons, all blasted to smithereens, dried energon gleaming in the light.

It passed, thrusters again, silence. Jazz waited a few more moments, the dark punctuated only with Prowl's periodic muffled wheezing. Jazz let his optics wander across his back, settling on the dislocated doorwing. There was some cracking in the plating – worth trying to snap back in, but it'd probably still ache.

“Alright, need you to hold very still,” he murmured quietly, taking the trembling appendage in one hand. “Can you look at me, bud?” he asked quietly. Prowl moved his head a bit – like maybe he heard something, but he didn't look at Jazz. “Well, this'll hurt,” Jazz added, and then pressed down hard and fast. Prowl hissed more static and kicked his legs, pushing himself harder back against Jazz, who felt the rubble behind him giving way – he tilted back, and even as he managed to get the wing to pop back into place, both of them proceeded to tumble back into the dilapidated building.

This time it wasn't a far fall, but Jazz still slid down the slope of molten metal until he finally reached a wall that was still standing. His head whacked into it, jarring him and making it difficult to catch Prowl, who was incoming immediately after him. The other mech had the benefit of being slowed by his doorwings, at least, and his impact with Jazz's legs was soft enough not to cause anything but paint transfers.

“Ow, jeez. Be careful!” Jazz hissed mockingly. Prowl didn't reply, in fact, he didn't even move. He wheezed, but seemed content to lay on his back, staring up at nothing. “You're a chatty guy, aren't ya? Can really see the relation between you and Bluestreak.”

Jazz got up, opting to leave Prowl where he was for now, and looked around. Everything was at a bit of an incline, if the wall hadn't stopped them, they would've probably kept sliding. It was an apartment building, and this looked like the remains of someone's living room. Even if the melt hadn't reached in here, the heat had – personal affects sagged like weeping parodies of themselves, shelves of datapads welded together, furniture lounging as it merged with the floor.

The door was open, though, and he glanced through – the hallway also seemed intact. He paused to drag Prowl down through the door and into the hall – the enforcer seemed content to remain on his back, wheezing. Jazz carefully wandered down the hall, trying not to look into any of the other apartments with opened doors, before he finally found what he wanted – emergency stairs. He leaned over the railing – intact, all the way to the bottom. He grinned to himself, then went back to get his luggage.

 

As expected, the stairway led to a sub-level, which featured a drain into Praxus's oil recycling system. Jazz didn't have maps for the maze of tunnels, but they were just big enough to walk through, and it was quiet enough that all he had to do was chat to Prowl to get a read off the walls and paint himself a rudimentary picture of where he was and what was around him.

“Acoustics are pretty nice down here too, wouldn'tya say?” he asked. Prowl wheezed. Jazz had taken to carrying him in both arms, because it was probably more comfortable for both of them, and he wanted to keep an eye on Prowl's optics for any responsiveness. He kept a blaster in the hand that was holding Prowl's legs, if anything came up, he could safely drop him legs first and stop him from hitting his head.

But Jazz doubted they'd run into anyone. They were so deep under the molten slag that even his comms couldn't penetrate to the surface. He guessed most of entrances down to the aqueducts had been melted over – getting out might be tough, but Jazz didn't plan on trying to climb out until he passed out of the war zone and into the bit of city that remained on the north side.

“What am I gonna do when I get you out of here though, huh?” he asked. Prowl wheezed. “I was sent in to find out why the 'cons're so organized this time around. Normally those darkened idiots are wildly outta control. Guess you're responsible, huh? Heard you had a real nice tactical computer in your head,” he tapped on Prowl's helm. Prowl shrunk a bit, doorwings trembling. “Oh, did I scare ya? Sorry.” Prowl flexed his hands and gently kicked his legs. At this point, Jazz wasn't sure if he was struggling with him, or with discomfort.

“Anyways,” Jazz continued, “you got a good tac com, so I'm guessin' that big computer was feeding you all the info, and you were makin' all the plans – though by the state of you, kinda doubt it was voluntary.” Prowl turned his head, but then turned back into Jazz, shuttering his optics and wincing. A few extra long, ragged breaths. “Kinda...are you motion sick? Get real uncomfortable when you turn your head....equilibrium circuits might be out,” he mused. “Where was I though. Yeah, that's right. You're stuck in that computer makin' all the plans, but last I heard from Blue – and let me be clear so it ain't weird, I don't track your movements or nothing – you were supposed to be in Iacon, which is mightily secure from the decepticons at the moment, and also mightily  _ far away _ .” A low static whine, wheezing coughs. “Oop, okay,” Jazz quickly lowered Prowl's legs and then turned the enforcer to face the ground, where he purged out another batch of coolant, this time mixed with just a little bit of deep purple angolmois.

“That's not good, ya know? Gotta see somebody....” Jazz muttered as he rubbed Prowl's back a bit, making sure he was done before picking him back up. Picking him up seemed to stun the mech – he went rigid every single time, Jazz had noticed. He couldn't put together why, but eventually Prowl relaxed, like it was too exhausting for him to hold his frame that tense.

“Anyways, yeah. Iacon, real secure. You, supposed to be there. And trust me – I woulda known about any other operatives in Praxus, 'cos I  _ do  _ know about all the other ops in Praxus, though no specifics, for security reasons. Plus, you ain't equipped with battle reinforcements yet. I digress. Anyways, this all tells me, you ain't here by coincidence, my mech. I'm thinkin' this smells like an inside job, yeah? Whaddya think? On the right track?” he looked at Prowl, who for about two seconds seemed to fix on his face. Jazz stopped walking to watch, but Prowl's optics immediately started to wander around again. “Well, maybe that was a yes.”

 

If it hadn't been for his internal chronometer, he would have lost track of time. Wandering the Praxus underground was monotonous – and not being able to drive was nearly agony. He didn't spite Prowl, but he could've been on the other side of Praxus and halfway to finding a medic to take a look at the enforcer if they didn't have to walk. As it was, he was starting to feel the tug of recharge, and he wasn't even sure if they'd made it out of the meltzone yet. Prowl for his part had passed out a couple of times, but always only briefly, and he'd jolt back online and start struggling, which nearly made Jazz drop him the first time, and did make him drop him the second time.

“I gotta climb up and check where we are,” he mused to himself as Prowl flexed his hands and ground his teeth, fighting some new phantom discomfort Jazz couldn't fathom. “Probably not all the way up, just high enough to ping something and get a position...” he murmured.

Prowl was more wriggly than usual, Jazz tried to adjust his hold, wondering if maybe he was putting too much pressure on the doorwings. Prowl suddenly put a hand on Jazz's chassis, which surprised him, and pushed. It was a weak push, but Jazz was surprised enough that Prowl managed to roll out of his arms, landing on his hands and knees. The servos in his elbows buckled almost immediately on contact with the ground, and Prowl went face-first into the solvent and oil. He weakly strained to push himself up, but all he managed was to prop himself up on his arms by getting them under his chassis.

“Hey, woah, buddy, easy,” Jazz knelt, putting a hand on Prowl's back, which made him squirm. He coughed and wheezed, and there was the low static whine – he purged again, more coolant and angolmois oozing out of his intake. He kept his mouth firmly shut, causing the coolant to worm its way through the gaps in his teeth, even as he coughed up more. When he finally stopped coughing, he finally let his mouth open a bit, just enough to let off the pressure of the coolant filling his mouth. He swallowed a few times, trying to keep whatever else was threatening to come up in. Jazz slowly rolled him onto his side, pulling his head up to try to help.

“Better?” he asked. Prowl kicked his legs a bit, with more force and intent than usual. “You think I'm a 'con, don'tcha? No idea where you are.” In response, Prowl struggled more, legs scrambling in the oil and solvent while he tried, with very little coordination, to elbow or whack Jazz away from him. Eventually he got a hand on Jazz's chassis again, below his neck, and  _ pushed _ . Jazz let him go, not completely sure what to do, and Prowl collapsed again. His whole frame strained with the effort of trying to push himself up, and in the end it was too much. He fell back into the oil, drawing in shuddering vents. Jazz let him sit for a minute, thinking. Finally he reached and turned the enforcer over, pulling him up again so he was facing him.

“Alright. Hey, Prowl? Buddy? Need ya to look me in the face, arright?”he asked, but Prowl had his optics shuttered, still trembling. Jazz put a hand on the back of his helm, tilting him forward a bit more. “Come on, Prowl. Look at me. Look me in the face.” This time it was an instruction. Prowl hesitated, but finally unshuttered his optics – which proceeded to wander around frantically, trying to find something to fixate on. “Here buddy. Right here,” Jazz urged, pointing to his own face, then taking Prowl's head and holding it closer.

It took entirely too long for Prowl to finally fix on Jazz's face, even accounting for the slightly dim light. The enforcer strained at first, then seemed to start spiraling into a panic as he proved unable to discern where exactly Jazz's face was, even though it had to be the only thing in his field of vision. His venting became nothing but short frantic bursts punctuated by little partial system stalls that made his whole frame seize for a fraction of a second. When he finally exhausted himself, he seemed to try to vocalize – no words, but Jazz was a trained listener. He plucked out tones of distress, obviously, but also anger, and then maybe pleading, followed by ragged resignation as Prowl sagged. Jazz kept a hold of his head.

“I have no idea what's gone on with your head, but I get this's gotta be hard on ya,” he said, careful to sound soothing. “But it'll be easier on both of us if you can recognize my face, buddy, since ya don't seem to be able to recognize my voice.”

Finally, Prowl's optics seemed to still, focused on Jazz's face. Jazz smiled at him, but tried to stay still, looking for any kind of expression of recognition. At first there was a great degree of alarm, but it started to melt away into confusion. Prowl reached up and touched Jazz's helm experimentally.

“I'm real, buddy,” Jazz replied. Prowl's hand fell back down, he let out a couple more long ventilations, then promptly passed out. Jazz tilted his head, a bit surprised, then laughed.

“Okay. I get it. You're tired. Me too. Let's find somewhere a little higher and drier for a nap, eh?” he hefted Prowl back up, trying to make sure his doorwings were comfortable before continuing his long walk into the murky darkness.


	2. 2

This hatch was heavy, but it had give, which was more than Jazz could say for the dozens of others he'd tried. He figured they still had to be on the edges of the melt zone based on how many of the grates had been sealed shut. Briefly, he worried he'd been going in circles, or had wandered deeper into the melt, but quickly dismissed the idea. His sense of direction wasn't that lousy.

“Could really use your help with this, Prowl,” Jazz joked as he strained to push open the hatch. Prowl was sitting propped against the wall a few meters away, completely unresponsive. He was deaf, he was mute, and had no recourse except to wheeze away quietly in the dark. At least, Jazz figured, he didn't seem uncomfortable at the moment.

Finally there was give – whatever was sitting on top of the hatch started to slide off, and Jazz put everything he had into his hydraulics for the final push. The hatch swung open, and Jazz popped his head out. It looked like they were in a supply room – a raided supply room. Empty shelves, a few broken crates, a few spilled cubes. Jazz couldn't help but to wince at the waste. His own levels were getting low, and he had no idea what Prowl was at – he only had a couple of extra rations in his subspace.

Jazz ducked his head back under the hatch to reach down and grab Prowl, pushing him up through the hatch. The enforcer was online, he thought, but totally limp, which suited Jazz – it made him easy to prop up against a shelf as he crawled up himself. He stretched – it felt good to have more than a meter of extra headspace.

“Alright, you sit there for one sec, while I have a little look around,” he patted Prowl on the shoulder and took a second to adjust his sitting position so he was comfortable – or looked comfortable to Jazz, anyways. Prowl remained unresponsive – his optics weren't even wandering around looking for something to fix on, he just stared into some secret universe only he could perceive, and it held his full attention.

Jazz came back a few kliks later, a broad grin spanning his face. Prowl didn't even look up, which did nothing to deflate Jazz's mood.

“A bar, Prowl! With a stage and everything. All in-tact, too! Well, a little dusty. Exciting, right?” he said as he pulled the enforcer up, dragging him out of the stock room and into the bar proper. It had windows, but they were all mostly buried under rubble. The door still lead outside, and seemed accessible, but the street it lead into had had a building fall on it, rendering the point moot.

Barstools sat unoccupied, empty glasses and beakers sat on the tables. Chairs had been knocked over, but while the occupants had left in a hurry, it didn't seem like the bar had come under fire. Jazz hefted Prowl up and sat him in one unoccupied chair near the stage – mostly because it had the most cover from the windows. The enforcer immediately rolled forward, unable or unwilling to support his own weight. He would have smashed face first into the table if Jazz hadn't caught him. As it were, Jazz gently arranged the Praxian so his head rested on his arms and he looked all the world like a passed out drunk. Except that his optics were online, and he continued his belligerent wheezing.

“There, comfy?” Jazz asked. Prowl wheezed. “I'm gonna go double check there ain't no spare energon layin' around, alright? Then we'll have ourselves a lil refuel and find somewhere more comfortable for a nice recharge. Sound good?” he asked. Prowl wheezed. “Yeah, sounds good,” Jazz nodded to himself, patting the enforcer on the shoulder.

Leaving Prowl at the table, Jazz turned to go rummage behind the bar, searching all the cabinets for any missed bottles of engex – fruitless, but worth checking. Next he examined the distillery, eight large cylinders lined up behind the bar. They were empty, as was to be expected, but Jazz headed for the taps hooked up to the bar.

“They drained the tanks, yeah, but I bet they didn't check the lines...” he murmured, holding a large beaker under one of the taps. He pressed the button, and a precious shot of energon leaked out – barely a mouthful, but something. “Ah, hell yeah! And what, ten taps? I bet we can get a cup each, hey, Prowl?” he called to the enforcer. He paused appropriately for a response. A tiny wheeze filled the empty room. “What! You'll bet me a hundred shanix only one cup? Well, I'll take that!”

Tap to tap, ten taps, Jazz came out with about one and a half standard glasses of engex. Some of it was higher grade, one of the taps had even been nucleon, it looked like, but Jazz just mixed everything together into one volatile cocktail. He split the cups evenly, then headed back to the table. He put Prowl's down before sipping politely on his own, sitting across from him.

“Oogh. Awful mix. Good thing I never pursued a career as a bartender, eh?” he joked. Prowl wheezed. “We met what, twice? Parties both times, but you didn't drink much. Or if ya did, you kept your FIM chip engaged, right?” Jazz took another sip, wincing at the taste. “Didn't strike me as a party bot. Hopefully you're a fancy drinker, and this stuff offends you so much you snap right outta whatever pixel haze you're in to smack me upside the head, huh?” Prowl wheezed. Jazz decided to get it over with, and tilted his head back to down the engex.

“Alright. Let's get this in you,” he murmured, getting up and walking around behind Prowl. He pulled the nonresponsive bot up to sit straight in his chair, then stood behind him and tilted his head back. He frowned. This would be easier with a funnel. There was probably something behind the bar he could use. He carefully balanced Prowl in the chair so he wouldn't fall forwards or backwards, and headed back to rummage around. Returning with some tubing from the distillery, Jazz tilted Prowl's head back again, gripping his jaw gently to force it open so he could run the tube down his intake.

As soon as the silicone hit the back of Prowl's throat, the enforcer went completely rigid. He gripped the chair and bit down hard, instantly puncturing the tubing. Jazz jerked his hand back, startled, but Prowl had a firm grip on the ruptured line.

“Oh. Yeah, can see why ya wouldn't like that,” Jazz grimaced, recalling the several feet of tubing he'd pulled out of the enforcer. “Sorry. We'll do it the hard way then, yeah?” he asked quietly. “If you'll let go of the tube, that is.” Prowl wheezed heavily, but eventually relaxed enough that Jazz was able to fish the shredded tube out of his mouth. Prowl, at least, seemed to have woken up a bit – his optics were listlessly searching around, unable to fix on anything.

“Okay,” Jazz muttered, pulling a chair over to sit beside Prowl. He put one around around the enforcer's shoulders to hold him still, then picked up the glass of engex in the other hand. He held it up to Prowl's mouth. “Can ya do this on yer own? Really rather not try and force it down your throat, but I don't wanna spill none,” he muttered. Prowl leaned back a bit away from the cup. “Yeah, smells bad, huh? Gotta take yer medicine, though.” Jazz tilted the cup against Prowl's mouth, and the enforcer took a tiny sip.

Immediately he started to cough, but Jazz kept up, holding his head still and forcing the concoction into his mouth. Prowl struggled to swallow, weakly raising his hands to grab Jazz's arm, but he couldn't do much but hold on. Jazz tilted the whole glass back, and then quickly tossed it at the table so he could hold Prowl's mouth shut. Prowl leaned away from him, face scrunched up and mouth full of engex that he was desperately trying to cough up.

“Gotta take it,” Jazz said. “Really can't afford to be picky, Prowl,” he added. It took a few kliks, but Prowl finally managed to swallow it. Jazz let him open his mouth, but held him upright as he coughed, vents hitching as he sucked in air to help clear his systems. “Good job! Barely spilled any!” Jazz grinned when Prowl started to wind down again. “Alright. Time for a little snooze. I bet this guy's got a crashpad somewhere, most bars do,” Jazz muttered. “Quiet a tick, yeah? And don't purge,” Jazz warned, setting Prowl so he was sitting up. Prowl wheezed wearily as Jazz stood, tapping his foot on the floor, listening to the sound.

“Ah, there it is. Come on buddy,” Jazz headed back over to the table, pulling the Praxian up out of his chair. Prowl went rigid, and didn't relax, straining in Jazz's grip like he'd been doing before. This time he mostly just seemed uncomfortable. His doorwings were held stiff, trembling, and he balled his hands into fists, tucking them close to his chassis. His legs jerked every now and then, and his face was scrunched up in pain. Jazz winced sympathetically as he carried the Praxian over to a door tucked away behind the bar. It lead down a short flight of stairs into a small berthroom, equipped with its own washracks. The place was pretty much untouched – Jazz guessed the raiders hadn't noticed the door, which was built to look more or less like part of the wall that lead to the stock room.

“Pretty good hideout for now, huh?” Jazz mused to Prowl, setting him on the berth. Prowl immediately curled up into a tight ball, arms crossing his chassis defensively, doorwings raised and stiff, trying and, Jazz guessed, failing to collect sensory data. Jazz frowned, then reached down and touched Prowl's head. “Alright, hey buddy. I get you're stressed. Time for recharge though, alright? Needya to start getting better here,” he murmured soothingly. Prowl wheezed and shuddered. “It's alright. You're safe for now, yeah? I got ya covered. Least I owe Blue, yeah?”

The trembling continued, and Jazz eased himself onto the berth, wrapping his arms around the shaking enforcer. Prowl curled up even more tightly, but started to relax slightly when Jazz stroked his helm.

“Yeah, see? It's alright. You're good,” Jazz murmured. “All good.”

 

Despite recharging about three times longer than was typical for his frame type, Prowl did not seem to be getting better. Jazz had left a few times while he was sleeping to survey the surrounding area – they were past the melt, on the edge of evacuated zone. His maps indicated one last shelter nearby, set up to support the trickle of mechs still working their way out of the warzone. It'd probably move on soon, but Jazz was pretty certain he could find a medic there.

And he needed one. Not only not getting better, Prowl was getting worse. His coolant levels had plummeted, and Jazz hadn't been able to find any supplements while scrounging for energon. He spent all his wakeful moments either painfully curled in on himself, trying to vent excess heat, or completely limp and unresponsive. Jazz wasn't a medic, but he could tell it wouldn't be long before Prowl's ventilation systems started to fail. Then he would start to overheat, an agonizing and drawn out process that would probably result in cascading system failures until his spark finally collapsed. Jazz grimaced at the thought.

Finding the medic was one thing, but getting Prowl to him would be another, Jazz added to his growing list. The mech couldn't walk, and while it wouldn't be totally unusual for one bot to drag another out of the warzone, Prowl would stand out like a sore servo to anybody who might have an eye out for the mech. Jazz would need to find a way to either mask his paintjob or move him there unseen. The former seemed easier than the latter, if he could manage to find some paint amongst all the ruins. It wasn't a high priority item – so it shouldn't be too hard to find  _ something _ someone had left behind.

 

Fire had long since revealed its third nature to Praxus, leaving nothing but burnt husks and melted bones. The buildings that escaped the burning still felt the weariness of their abandonment. Dust and ash clogged Jazz’s vents, and he didn’t want to imagine how badly it was affecting Prowl.

“Don’t quit on me now, buddy, we’re just about there,” Jazz murmured. Prowl gasped, but gasping was the new wheezing. Jazz was carrying the enforcer over his shoulder, which Jazz guessed was uncomfortable based on the increase in twitches and spasms. Or maybe the paint was itching. Jazz had managed to dig up some deep blue, but no primer – the paint was already peeling and revealing the white beneath. Jazz just hoped it would fool anyone who did catch a glimpse of the pair into only glancing, rather than scrutinizing.

Prowl gasped hard, his whole body shuddered with the effort of each ventilation. Jazz had been running his own systems as cool as possible, holding the tactician flush against his plating to try to compensate, but Prowl still felt too hot.

“Hang in there, I worked hard to find you this doc, so I need ya to at least make it to his medbay, ya dig?” Jazz asked. Prowl gasped. Jazz sighed.

 

“This is who you talked about, yes?” Hoist was more of an engineer than a doctor, but he’d been known to repair a mech or two. With the war, he'd had considerably more opportunities to increase his experience.

“Yeah – he’s havin’ some serious cooling problems,” Jazz explained, “and he’s got something wrong with his processor. I don’t expect you to fix that, but if you could maybe suss out if it’s a hardware or a software thing…” Jazz trailed off, looking at Prowl, who sat in the examination chair, slumped forward in exhaustion, venting heavily. “Oh! And he’s been coughin’ up coolant, and purple.”

“Purple? That’s bad news…” Hoist rubbed his chin, pulling out a scanner and running it over the mystery blue mech.

“Well, he’s mostly done with it now, I think. Coolant’s the real problem,” Jazz explained. Hoist nodded in agreement.

“Yes, his levels are very low. He’s a bit low on fuel, too,” Hoist nodded. “It looks like there’s a bit of damage to some coolant lines in his chassis, near his tanks. I’ll have to open him up to fix it, but should be quick and easy enough!” Hoist added cheerily. It felt good to have a patient with such a simple problem to fix. Most had so much damage it was hard to tell which system failures were root causes and which were merely cascades.

“Good, good. Let’s tip him then, yeah? Or, ah, emp first. Gets weird if you lay him back,” Jazz remembered as Hoist went to grab the emp generator.

“Weird?” He asked as he primed the tool, adjusting the settings to temporarily take the enforcer offline.

“Has a little freeze, or a panic, I guess,” Jazz shrugged. “He ain’t spoke to me since I found him, he’s very fragged in the processors.”

Hoist frowned behind his faceplate. Maybe this wasn’t such an easy patient, and Hoist really knew very little about processors. He fired the EMP, and the enforcer slumped forward. Hoist started to tilt the chair back, stretching it into a medical berth.

“Well, the coolant lines should be nice and easy to fix,” he assured Jazz, who nodded and smiled encouragingly.

“That's good, good to hear,” he agreed. Hoist glanced over at Jazz as he teased the Praxian's chassis open, the other autobot seemed tense. Hoist had heard of Jazz, and tense wasn't really the description he'd been given. Despite seeming a bit on edge, Jazz still smiled warmly at him, leaning on the side of the berth over the other mech, shifting his weight frequently. Oh, Hoist realized – if the Praxian was low on fuel, Jazz probably was, too. He was probably tired, he'd likely had to split his rations with the injured mech. Then why hadn't he gone for a resupply? And why go to Hoist, a mech with little experience, when other autobot medics weren't that far away?

“There's some fuel in the cabinet. You look like you could use some,” Hoist offered as he dug into the Praxian. The mech below him twitched as he brushed past sensitive nerves, for which Hoist muttered an apology. A more skilled medic wouldn't make that mistake, but Hoist was an engineer, and he wasn't used to the components he worked with being quite so alive.

“Ah, thanks,” Jazz sounded relieved, and fetched a cube out for himself, which he quickly downed.

Hoist rummaged around and found the cuplrit – a coolant line that had not just sprung a leak, but burst. He frowned, checking the rest of the line, and looking at others – they all looked as if they had been swollen, and while they should've been recovering, they had yet to snap back to their original shape. The one that had fully burst was a primary line, and when it had ruptured, the pressure must have been taken off the others.

The rupture, in turn, had apparently been violent enough to open a small tear in the Praxian's fuel tanks, and then self-repair nanites had mistakenly welded the ruptured line to the tanks, which would've resulted in coolant mixing with the fuel, which would've made any fuel the Praxian did have almost impossible to process. But why had the repair nanites made such a critical error? And why hadn't they begun to repair the other lines? There were telltale signs of serious overheating, but there were also stress fractures lacing the whole frame that the nanites had either failed to address or repaired erroneously, causing more problems. His whole self-repair network had to be down. It had to be related to the processor damage.

Wrapping up repairing the lines and closing the Praxian up, Hoist tilted him and the berth back up into a chair, keeping it angled so the unconscious mech wouldn't tilt forward. Jazz hovered nearby.

“All good in there now?” he asked.

“As good as I can make it,” Hoist nodded. “There's a lot of heat damage. Normally the self-repair systems would take care of it, but his don't seem to be functioning correctly.” Jazz hummed with concern.

“I know. Let's check his head, yeah? I don't expect you to be able to do much, but knowing'll help me out a lot,” Jazz said. Hoist nodded amiably, pulling a scanner down from the equipment suite above the medical slab. He fixed the helm-like structure over the Praxian's head, then gently gave him a jolt to wake him up.

“Alright, all set,” Hoist said, gesturing for Jazz to follow him over to the monitoring station. He activated the scanner, and immediately began to frown at the readings.

“Not....much happening. You sure it's working?” Jazz asked. Hoist nodded.

“I'm...well, I'm fairly sure,” he said. “Maybe just taking a bit long to boot up,” he gestured to the patient, whose doorwings twitched, hands flexed. Wheezing.

“That's about as awake as he does, I think,” Jazz said, watching the screen. Readouts that denoted automatic tasks – self repair, ventilation, energon processing – were barely blips when they should have been screams in a mech with that much damage. Higher processes were barely there, communication with the memory core was stagnant. Input was obviously flowing in, but only fragments seemed to be interpreted, and of those fragments even fewer made connection with relevant memory experiences to form comprehension. And yet, deep below the scattered responses, a black line etched into the monitor, a baseline that trembled and coughed below the fog of empty sensory data.

“This is....not usual,” Hoist murmured. “But, well, I don't know what to make of this, however, it seems as though perhaps the coding for his self-repair functions is, ah, damaged, or, erm, compressed?” he asked. Jazz shrugged. “I can, well, I've got a patch for – you know, processor damaged individuals. A general patch for Praxian frametypes, it can, ah, take over his autonomic functions....until he can unpack his, uh, memory core,” Hoist started to rummage around in a drawer, looking for the chip. This was not a recorded natural condition, the damage here was intentional, designed, and the idea made Hoist anxious.

“Right. It's better than nothin'. Once his self-repair gets on, maybe his processor will start getting itself together, eh?” Jazz patted Hoist on the arm, but looked up quickly when he heard a scraping. Hoist looked up too – the Praxian had raised his arms and was pawing at the apparatus on his head. His body had gone rigid, doorwings high and tense. Hoist blinked, and looked at the monitor – little had changed, except that deep baseline had formed a steep plateau of distress.

“Ah – I'll get it,” Jazz scrambled over to the Praxian and pulled the apparatus off his head. He slumped forward, grabbing at the air, and Jazz caught him, cradling his head against his chassis. “You're good. Sorry, mech. Didn't think about it,” he murmured. Hoist waddled over awkwardly with the patch, which he gently installed into the back of the Praxian's neck.

“That'll hopefully sort his systems out. If not, you need to take him to a real medic,” Hoist urged. “You should take him to a real medic anyways. He's badly damaged, and it's not a hardware problem.”

“I know. I know. I gotta sort some other things out first. Listen, you never saw us, alright?” Jazz put a firm hand on Hoist's shoulder. “I was never here, and you didn't treat any Praxian for processor damage.”

“I – yes, of course,” Hoist rubbed his servos anxiously. What was going on? Jazz smiled at him and patted him on the shoulder.

“Good mech,” he said, and then pulled the Praxian up out of his chair. The mech trembled, but settled into Jazz, like he was used to that position, and dropped down into recharge. “You too,” Jazz laughed before leaving Hoist alone in his makeshift medbay.

 

“Jazz,” it was a tiny voice, woven out of static, that woke him. An accompanying sense of servos on his chassis, pushing at him. Jazz's visor blinked online and he sat up suddenly, pulling a blaster from his subspace. He looked around. Prowl was sprawled on the floor beside him, Jazz must have knocked him over when he sat up. He looked around for anyone else and, seeing no one, put down the blaster and reached over to pull the struggling Praxian up.

“Prowl?” he asked.

“Jazz,” Prowl wheezed. “Jazz,” he said again.

“Prowl!” Jazz smiled. “Oh, I thought you'd gone totally brain dead. What's happening, what's going on?” he asked, holding Prowl by the shoulders, keeping him steady. Prowl wheezed, but his optics were focused on Jazz.

“Jazz,” he repeated.

“Yeah, that's me,” Jazz nodded, fear sticking to the sides of his relief. Prowl raised his hands and put them on Jazz's chassis, pushing him, trying to shake him. He shuttered his optics and put a hand to his head.

“J – uurgh,” he leaned forward, holding his head.

“Alright, alright, can you understand me?” Jazz tried to sit Prowl back up. Prowl's head rolled on his shoulders. “Look at me.” Prowl's optics turned towards Jazz. “You understand what I'm saying? One blink for yes, two blinks for no,” Jazz said. One blink. “Good, good. You need to tell me something?” One blink. “Does it have to do with your health?” A pause. Two blinks. “Decepticons?” Prowl shuttered his optics and didn't open them. “Prowl, work with me,” Jazz said, holding Prowl's head with one hand.

“Jazz,” Prowl muttered. His voice was equal parts grief and static.

“Alright, okay,” Jazz soothed, pulling the Praxian into a hug. “You got one word down, you'll get the rest soon, and you can tell me what you gotta, alright?” Prowl steadily went limp, and Jazz eased him back, expecting him to have slipped back into recharge. But no, his optics were online, that lifeless stare again – deaf, mute, and not a thought in his metal head except to wheeze gently into the night. Jazz winced, hope for some progress towards recovery shrinking in the full glare of those dead optics.

 

Jazz was running out of options and energon. He'd decided initially to see how Prowl recovered after Hoist's ministrations, hiding out on the edges of the melt and biding time to see if Prowl could tell him any critical intel if he recovered enough. The knowing was critical if Prowl had been handed over by autobots to the decepticons – until then, Jazz had to operate like everyone could be a rat. But the recovery was going slow, if anything, Prowl seemed worse off than he had been. He spoke occasionally, though the only words he'd managed so far were “Jazz,” “Prowl,” “help,” “Bluestreak.” The speech was often proceeded and sometimes preceded by fits and blackouts. By far the worst moments were the long stretches where Prowl sat, awake as ever, but completely unresponsive. It was eerie, a state of living death that Jazz often worried would never end.

But there were moments of coherency, too. Even if he didn't managed any words Prowl sometimes managed to communicate, though usually it was some need for reassurance after a bout of blindness-deafness. He would reach for Jazz, search around the room for him with his hands, mutter static bursts and try to get his bearings. He would frown, writhe, hold his head, whine, and then try again. Jazz had once sat quietly and let the enforcer search around the room, trying to learn something about his sensory damage, but in the end watching Prowl had been too difficult. He had tried to search the room for Jazz methodically, proceeding grid by grid, but continually lost his place, either forgetting or being interrupted by waves of nausea or pain. He ended up searching the same grid over and over, increasingly distressed. Jazz guessed he had enough tactile memory left to realize he'd searched that area already, but was unable to commit the result to his memory core. Jazz knew that kind of discrepancy couldn't be easy to accept for someone whose mind had been considered his most valuable asset.

“Hey,” Jazz had said, touching his arm, “I'm right here. Sorry mech, I'd nodded off,” he had lied. Prowl had grabbed his hand and then collapsed in relief.

Having witnessed this, Jazz didn't want to think about what kind of panic Prowl might work himself into while he was out looking for energon. He'd left Prowl securely locked in a new hidey-hole, a room wedged under a half-melted apartment block, slowly peeling off the hastily applied paint Jazz had given him. The room had been intact, and the door had still been usable though well hidden under the melt – it would do for now. As it were, Jazz was sneaking around the remaining autobot relief camp on the edge of the melt – it would be moving on soon, and Jazz needed Prowl well enough to move with it. Dragging him out of the melt on his own was hardly an option, especially if it turned into an active front. Jazz was honestly surprised it hadn't yet, but the rate at which the Autobots were being pushed back had slowed considerably since Jazz had rescued Prowl.

The camp wasn't small, but it had few Praxians, Jazz realized quickly. He thought about the sinking faces in the metal and grimaced. No, there weren't many left. He felt a little guilty as he snuck around the back of a transport. He'd been able to sneak into the camp no problem – even if the sentries noticed him, they'd be quick to realize he was an autobot – but he hadn't exactly announced his presence. He also had no intention of asking for the cubes of energon he was about to shove into his subspace, especially the medical grade. It'd be listed as missing, and someone would have to take the blame, but Jazz didn't want anyone to know he was shopping for two, and someone injured. Everybody was a rat.

“Jazz!”

Jazz whirled at the sound of his own name – he hadn't been sneaking as hard as usual surrounded by autobots, but it was still a surprise, and he kicked himself for it. He turned with a smile.

“Hey, my mech, what's happening?” he asked, holding his arms out wide. The mech in front of him didn't reciprocate, two hands clamped down on his shoulders and held him firmly.

“Jazz, have you heard anything? About my brother? Prowl? You met him once, you know? He was, uh, he looks just like me, but black and white, and he's – you met him, right, at that...oh, I don't remember where it was, but you were there, and he was there, and I'm sure I introduced you, and it was a long time ago, but listen he's not in Iacon and nobody knows where he went and they're all saying he's AWOL or something but I know that's not true and you gotta believe me it's not true Prowl's not that kinda mech and no one  _ believes me _ Jazz you gotta help,” Bluestreak finished, shaking Jazz bodily as he spoke.

Jazz let himself be shook, amazed and relieved that of all the people who could've spotted him, it would be Bluestreak, the only mech Jazz was certain wasn't the rat in this regard save Optimus Prime himself. And of course it would be Bluestreak. He was a sniper by training, and he knew to look for anything unusual.

“Hey, easy Blue,” Jazz patted Bluestreak's arms as the other mech kept shaking him. “Okay, I got ya. Let's go talk somewhere else, okay?”

“Jazz, don't you understand? Prowl's not been fitted with armour yet since he wasn't supposed to be frontline yet 'cos he's a good shot but from far away so he didn't need the extra protection and he said to make sure everybody else who was closer to the front front was fitted before he was and if he's out here somewhere he's not gonna be able to take even a single shot he'll just fall right to pieces and I'll never find him – ”

“Bluestreak, come with me, alright?” Jazz squeezed Bluestreak's arm reassuringly, but also firm enough to steer him towards the exit to the camp.


	3. 3, Prowl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edit: Hi! I was asked to add a rape/non-con warning to this chapter for a flashback. I didn't intend to really imply rape/non-con of an overtly sexual nature, just torture, but I can definitely understand how it can be read that way and the kind of violation and how it's depicted are very analogous. So stay safe, friends!

Prowl tried to find the point where the room ended and he began. He had a sense that he was more than a point of light, or a hole in a bucket, but he couldn't remember the shape. Vision filtered in, and Prowl knew there was a gap it came through to reach him, but how far it went through the darkness, how close he was to the inside of his skull was a mystery. It was a moon, and he was at the bottom of a well. Shapes moved at the summit, but he could not tell what they were, where they were, if they were parts of him or parts of something else.

Keeping his head above the water was exhausting, there was nothing to hold onto, and he had long lost the ability to float. If he was in a well he could not find the walls, and if he was in an ocean he could not find the shore. It didn't take him long to give up the struggle and sink. The bottom, he knew, was not as far away as it seemed. He sank slowly, the moon above him blurred, shapes too undefined to discern. The sandy bottom stretched away into nothing, eternal in every direction, the inky black water crystal clear if only there was anything to look at.

Even here at the bottom he ached. The whole ocean ached. Sharp jolts of pain were tiny reminders of his shape, he had hands, he pulled them close to himself. But through the ache there was also calm, he could rest, he could turn the moon away from himself and sink into the silt. The ocean moved and Prowl shrank away, curling into a claw. There were words he had to remember. He sighed.

My name is Prowl, I am an enforcer, he recited. Jazz can help me. Bluestreak is my brother.

Some of these words had begun to lose their meaning. He knew Jazz, he was a shape at the peak of his vision, one he could grasp occasionally. He could remember having these moments of clarity, of absolute understanding, but here, at the bottom, they were far away, a bright white concept and impossible to grasp. There were moments he remembered, but most of his time was spent at the bottom, slowly sinking into the sand. What would happen if he let it engulf him? He could not imagine ever exhuming himself.

The ocean moved again, and Prowl turned his attention away from it. A current, or a monster, hunting him down, an idea he wanted to avoid. He would take burial over the terrors, but they came anyways, rushing over him, tumbling about his ocean, starving him of oxygen and drowning his processor in clouds of static.

 

What Prowl remembered was in pieces. He remembered being in Iacon, in a place where he lived, he remembered opening his door, he remembered being in a transport, on his side, hands bound, knees bound, doorwings fastened together. He remembered trying to move and the resulting crash code. He remembered being carried, staring at the floor, paralyzed and unable to look up. Bouts of dizziness, thrown high and lucid from the pain that arced through his sensornet. Where was it coming from? His doorwings were deaf and numb.

And the chair. He had a clarity about that that was seared into his mind, he couldn't forget it even though he'd tried. The shape, the discomfort that shape brought his frame, the way it wasn't designed for his doorwings and they pushed against the edges. There was the sensation of scraping his own plating off, sliver by sliver, as he involuntarily struggled with his restraints, the taste of metal and coolant and energon and angolmois in his mouth, the hot and cold running past his lip plating, down his chin, making the cables on his throat itch. And then being released from the chair –

Prowl shrank away from this memory, swimming against its current, but there was nothing else to grasp to pull himself out of it. He remembered being curled up on a recharge slab in a room so dark even with the glow of his optics he could barely latch onto the shapes. Reeling from the time spent in the chair, the sheer amount of data that had pounded its way through his processor, demanding to be sorted and analyzed lest it completely overwhelm him. Knowing he would be strapped back in, he had to make space for that data. Had to decide what to delete.

The things he could recover, the things he had back-ups of, those he could delete easily. Old case files, memories of music and art. All the troop statistics and battle plans he'd helped with with the autobots went just as fast, those were a liability anyways. Primal Vernacular...it would take time, but he could relearn the bulk of it, he kept only small nuance notes that would be difficult to pick back up. He'd need all his combat training to have any hope of escape, so he kept that, along with his enforcer training. Sensory details – did he need olfactory definitions? He could relearn them, most medics had a basic ID packet he could take, and it wouldn't help him escape. He wiped it, followed by taste information. Personal memories. He wavered, they took up a lot of space, but they were what made him  _ him _ . Ultimately unable to delete himself, he compressed them instead, hiding them behind a wall in his processor, reinforcing it so they wouldn't be washed away. Would this be enough?

And then the door had opened, and then a gap of nothing. Fingers digging into his transformation seams, his neck cabling, teeth and glossa. Hands raking over his frame, applying pressure to the parts of his body that he barely wanted to share even with the people he loved. Greedy hands, circling his headlights, digging into his thighs, prying his chassis apart, cutting away the softer metal. The exposure of the internal mechanisms, cool air and scraping teeth, needles hovering above his spark–

Prowl gasped and tried to surface. Anything but to relive this memory. The effort was monumental, his head crested the water and he reached out to seize the moon, the only thing in the world he could grasp. He clung to the edges, pulled himself up towards his own optics, trying to peer out and fill his head with whatever sensory input he could if only to forget –

But it was dark, where he was. Pitch dark, all the time. His vents hitched as he tried to adjust to a new level of comprehension. He had a body, he could tell the shape of it based on where it intersected the wall, the floor. He was sitting limply with his back to the wall like a discarded frame. His body  _ hurt _ . It itched, and burned, phantom sensations brought on by overheated and malfunctioning circuits made it feel like he had scraplets crawling, gnawing at his plating. He pushed himself up, rubbing his hands over himself like he could brush them off, which was when the shivering started. He couldn't tell if he was cold, the shaking was just...happening.

It didn't stop even when Prowl felt the rest of his system cut dead at the sound of voices. Not Jazz's voice. Someone else was outside his tiny black box. Prowl couldn't even remember where the door to the room was, he wrapped his arms around himself in an effort to lessen the trembling. If someone heard his plating rattling, his ventilation systems wheezing, it would all be over. He had no reason to hope for a second rescue, not when he was so damaged, with so little strategic value.

And then his hearing shorted, followed by his optics, then the sensory data from his doorwings. He didn't know if he gasped or made a sound. Panic set in immediately. Blind and deaf, he would have no idea if he was found until they were already on him. He didn't even know if he was making any noise, drawing them to him. He knew the shaking was worse, it was hard to resist the urge to move, because his joints ached, his plating itched, and the more still he was the more the fear started pulling him back into his mind. He wrapped his arms around himself more tightly and pressed a hand over his mouth, holding in his vents to make sure they wouldn't wheeze. Oh god, please don't find me.

What was seconds turned to minutes. Were they already in the room with him? Were they gone entirely? He felt like sobbing. The stress was eating away at his insides. He was already so exhausted and confused. The terror was a cold thing that sat somewhere just under his engine, melting its way icily through him until it came to nest next to his spine and spread up and down his intake. It bit at the back of his throat, locking up his jaw and then spilled into his fuel tanks, reminding him that he was running on fumes. Minutes turned to hours. He knew somewhere in his mind that his optics and hearing wouldn't reset until he rebooted himself, but he was too terrified that he'd make a sound. He sat in his darkness and let the terror eat through him until he was too tired to even tremble.

And then it happened, hands touched his shoulders and he flung himself back in a panic, crushing his doorwings flat against the wall. He reached out with his arms blindly, trying to hold whoever it was at bay, turning his head, pressing back into the wall. His hands met a chassis and he shoved and then turned and scrambled to the side, but he didn't even know where the door was. He'd never felt so helpless in his life. He curled up into a knot, and let the terror drown him.


	4. 4

“Prowl?” Bluestreak reached out for his brother, but Jazz grabbed his hand.

“Easy,” Jazz said, “he doesn't know it's you. You're freaking him out.”

“How can he not know it's me? I'm his brother! He wouldn't forget --”

“It's not that,” Jazz said, gripping Bluestreak's elbow firmly to stop him from rushing his brother, who was rapidly descending into a fit. “His optics were offline, which means his hearing probably was out too. He couldn't tell who you were, probably figured you were a decepticon,” he added. “Must have heard those two we saw rummaging around before it shorted out, usually doesn't panic that bad when it happens.”

“His optics short? That's bad. That's not good! What's wrong with him?” Bluestreak wasn't as collected as Jazz had hoped he'd be. Jazz put both hands on Bluestreak's shoulders, tearing him away from looking at Prowl – who was having spasms on the floor as he slipped offline without his recharge protocols engaging.

“Bluestreak, it's bad. I don't know what's wrong with him. We have to get him to a proper medic off the books, but he's got time. He's not gonna die overnight on you. He'll probably even know who you are when he reboots,” Jazz reassured the sniper, who kept trying to look over his shoulder. “Blue – look at me bud. Ya listenin?”

“Yeah – yeah. Okay. I get it. Panicking's not helping. Sorry. I just – I've never seen him look so – you know – out of it – he's always so calm even when he's upset he's very – it's not like this,” Bluestreak finally muttered.

“I don't know if he's gonna be okay, Blue, but there's more of him there than it looks like right now. You caught him at a bad time. We gotta get some energon in him, alright? You wanna help me with that?”

“Yeah,” Bluestreak nodded his whole body practically. Jazz glanced at Prowl, then released Bluestreak, who quickly turned around. By now Prowl was done with his spasms and had slipped offline.

“He's out, so this'll be a little tricky,” Jazz murmured. “Though, easier with two of us, I guess!” he added with a bit more cheer. Bluestreak didn't smile, he reached down to turn Prowl onto his back, then pull him up in a sitting position. Kneeling beside his brother he pulled him closer, checking over his doorwings – he had smashed them pretty good when he'd startled awake, there were dents and one of the joints had dislocated.

“Ah, yeah, that wing was already – a bit goofed. It was healing okay on its own but I guess he must've upset it just now,” Jazz muttered. Bluestreak let Prowl slump forward before taking the appendage. He leaned over Prowl's head.

“Okay, this's gonna hurt, and I dunno if it'll wake you up, but I'm right here, I'm not going anywhere,” he muttered. He kept talking as he gripped the doorwing, and then snapped it in.


	5. 5

Prowl's optics went bright white as pain brought him involuntarily back online. He opened his mouth and nothing but a tiny burst of static coughed its way out, and then he started to struggle. He leaned back, pressing himself against whoever was holding him, pushing his legs into the floor in a confused and uncoordinated attempt to escape. His fingers found his attacker's arms, wrapped around his waist. Prowl grabbed the wrists there and tried to pry the servos off, fingers scraping the plating. But his attempts were weak, he was exhausted and disoriented. He wanted to scream but couldn't find the right string of code. His doorwing  _ hurt _ . The pain was dizzying, it was throwing off what little bit of balance he had. He was slumping, turning, trying to find pressure for the doorwing to hold it in, but it was just making him tilt. And tilting made him  _ so dizzy _ . He felt his tanks turning, but there was nothing there to purge, he gagged on nothing, the pressure building in his tanks as he tried to syphon out the nothing, then then finally release when he sputtered out the wheezing fumes he had left.

He sat still for a minute, dazed. His optics were online, but barely. The images he was getting were static with large chunks of pixels moving around against a background of identical pixels. His hearing felt about the same. Then he felt the servos around his waist adjust, loosen, and terror took over again, and he turned and pressed a hand into his attacker, pushing himself away, this time with success. He stumbled two steps before collapsing to his knees again. He still didn't know where the door was, he turned and shuffled backwards, hands out against the two shapes coming at him. Where was Jazz? Every inch of him hurt.

“ _ Prowl _ ,” one of the shapes was leaning over him. Prowl looked around but couldn't find a face, couldn't focus. “You need to reboot your optics. You understand me? Come on buddy.”

Jazz. Prowl thought the relief might kill him, too, like an elastic stretched too tight suddenly snapping back. He offlined his optics a few times, but the static remained. And there was still a second shape. Prowl panicked. Did Jazz know he was behind him? He tried to point, but Jazz took his hand and held it.

“Buddy, you're good. Bluestreak's here. You know who that is? You understand me?”

Bluestreak? Prowl struggled. That was one of his words. Bluestreak is my brother. He offlined his optics again, struggling to remember. He had a name, had a meaning, his spark filled in the feelings his processor couldn't. But the face was not forthcoming in his mind. He wheezed, resetting his optics. Some of the static had cleared, he could make out Jazz's visor and the blues, and the colour red. The second shape was kneeling beside him.

“Please Prowl, come on, you remember me, right? I'm your brother! You can't forget me, right?” The voice was familiar. Prowl couldn't lock onto his face, he tracked wayward pixels and struggled to see anything past the blue optics. He turned his head away, shuttering his optics. It was making him dizzy. Someone pressed a hand over his chest.

“Prowl, can you look at him, buddy? I know you're probably dizzy,” Jazz guessed. “This is important, though. Need ya to try.”

Jazz was always so pushy. Prowl barely knew who Jazz was. He barely knew who Prowl was. How was he supposed to figure out who Bluestreak was? It was pure agony – he was finally awake, out of the ocean of his mind, and he could barely tell how to move his own body. It was like it didn’t fit anymore, wasn’t quite his anymore. Someone had done everything to take it away from him. And now Jazz wanted him to figure out his optics again, as if it wasn’t hard enough.

“Prowl, please, please Prowl,” the other person in the room begged him, he reached out and brushed a palm across Prowl’s cheek. Prowl jerked away from the motion, panic setting back in. A memory struggled to pull him in, a deep set terror that lived somewhere right underneath his fuel pump. Prowl pressed both hands into his head. Not this memory. Anything but to relive this.

“Prowl -- I’m sorry -- Prowl?” the voice asked. Hands on his shoulders, shaking him. He reached out to grab onto anything, found what he thought was Jazz, dragged his servos down his hood as he felt himself being pulled back into his own mind. He didn’t want to go. He tried to hold onto Jazz.

“Prowl -- no -- buddy, come on, look at me, look at me,” Jazz grabbed Prowl by the sides of his helm and tilted his face up. Prowl wanted to weep.

“Don’t touch me,” he heard himself murmur. “Jazz, help. Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, don’t touch me,” he kept saying it. It wasn’t what he was trying to say. Jazz gave him a quizzical expression but tried to disentangle himself from Prowl. Prowl grabbed at his wrists.

“Don’t touch me!” he hissed. “Help. Jazz, help me.” Why couldn’t he say more than those five words right now? He wanted to scream.

“Prowl, I don’t know what you want me to do. Do you want me to let you go or not?” Jazz asked. The other person in the room was sitting beside them, quietly now. Prowl pressed his head into his hands, releasing Jazz’s wrists.

“Help,” he muttered. “Help me.”

“Is me touching you bothering you?” Jazz asked. Prowl shuttered his optics and shook his head. Jazz carefully put his hands on Prowl’s shoulders. “Did Bluestreak touching your face bother you?” he asked softly. Prowl dug his servos into his faceplate, gripping the edges of his helm. He nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Bluestreak murmured.

“Is it because it was Bluestreak?” Jazz asked. Prowl shook his head. “Did it make you remember something else?” He nodded and clawed at his faceplate, like the pain could erase the memory of that caress.

“I’m sorry. Oh, Prowl, I’m so sorry,” Bluestreak sounded confused, his voice was full of grief.

“Prowl -- cut that out -- come on,” Jazz was saying as he took Prowl’s wrists and pried his hands away from his face. “Can’t deal with ya trying to hurt yourself, now. Why don’t you try looking at Blue again, huh? Can you give that a try?” He tilted his head towards Bluestreak.

Prowl looked. He really did try. He struggled against the sea of swimming pixels, focused on the points of blue, the lines of red. There was a red face he recognized. It filled him with some kind of comfort, but also discomfort, uncertainty. But he was supposed to be looking for a mech's face. He knew what optics were, and searched for those. He could find Jazz easily enough by the bright band, he fixed on that for a bit, but Jazz turned his head back to the other two pricks of light. He reset his optics, tried to force the pixels to make a shape. It made him dizzy, but Jazz held his head firm, stopping him from trying to look away.

“It's okay, Prowl. We'll – we'll figure it out. You need to get a little rest, yeah? Jazz, let's not – let's not you know, tire him out.” Bluestreak sounded so defeated. Prowl felt pain in his spark.

“Keep looking at him. He can do it. He knows who I am,” Jazz replied. Bluestreak looked back at him. Prowl balled his hands into fists and ground his teeth.

“Bluestreak,” he finally gasped. “Bluestreak is my brother.” Yes! There it was. The words he needed. He relaxed, and then blackness ate him up.

 

Bluestreak sat and held Prowl while Jazz checked outside. He could hear gunfire, the distant rumbling of falling bombs rolled off his doorwings. They had to move, but they needed somewhere to move to first. If Prowl could walk – an untested theory – they knew it wouldn't be for long, and after that, there would only be so far they could carry him without being spotted. Better to go from hiding space to hiding space until they could escape the oozing remains of Praxus.

Prowl tensed suddenly, and Bluestreak jumped, adjusting his grip on his brother. Prowl turned his head and winced, balling his hands into fists, trying to curl. One wing went high and the other stuttered up to meet it, still sore from the second dislocation.

“Hey hey – shh. It's okay. I've got you,” Bluestreak murmured. This didn't do much to comfort Prowl, who thrashed his head away from the noise, which apparently made him dizzy, according to Jazz. He loosened as whatever painful discomfort he had was instead replaced by lightheadedness, Bluestreak guessed. He did his best to tilt Prowl up into a more sitting position, holding the enforcer's head against his shoulder plating. Prowl relaxed a bit.

“Primus,” Bluestreak muttered. He rested his head on top of Prowl's and resisted the urge to rock back and forth – he didn't want to make Prowl more dizzy. “How could this happen? Who would – betray us like that? This sucks, Prowl, this really sucks. But we're gonna get you back – somewhere. Get Ratchet, he'll know what to do, and he's not – Jazz is too paranoid, it wouldn't be Ratchet,” he babbled, trying to fill up the silence that had come to define his life. “You were always real good at listening to me talk, yeah? Now you can't stop me at all, so I'm gonna talk your audial right off, you got it?” Prowl relaxed a little more, but Bluestreak couldn't tell if it was because he was calming down, or because he was entering that awful, awful coma-like state where he'd just stare endlessly at nothing. He was too afraid to look.

“I talked all the time when we were new, too, remember? You never complained about it, you were the only person – you are the only person – who never interrupted me unless it was really important. You'd just let me talk and talk and talk and you listened to everything I said. Whenever I finally had the – the processing power – to shut up for two seconds you'd have about four things to say all lined up, questions, comments, all that stuff, neat and tidy, and I'd never get around to answering all of them, I'd go on such stupid tangents,” Bluestreak laughed. “You're such a good brother. I know people don't believe it. They say you're stiff, and more than a little cold. It's not true, you're just quiet. Like right now. Just – having a quiet episode, or something. Like how I can't stop talking. I'm worse than ever, Prowl. I could use your input, you know?”

“Because I don't – you know. I don't know how we're gonna pull through this. You – have you seen Praxus? It's just gone. I don't even recognize anything. We're in Praxus right now and I can't tell where. And now you're sick and we – can't even take you to a medic? It's too much to deal with.” Bluestreak wrapped his arms around Prowl, pressing his forehead against his brothers. “You gotta get better,” he muttered. “I really can't do this on my own.”

“Hey, Bluestreak?” Jazz's voice coming from the doorway made him jump.

“Uh, yeah, Jazz?”

“It's clear. Let's move him. You wanna try and wake him up and see if he'll walk?”

“No, uh, I'll carry him. It's, uh, better if we don't waste the energon, right?”

“Sure, sure,” Jazz peeled back the half-melted metal sheet to make enough space for Bluestreak to scramble out holding Prowl. “Gonna try and get us all the way to the outskirts. Outta Praxus. Hole up on the edge, hit the freeways when we're ready to move again.”

“He can't drive,” Bluestreak murmured, cradling Prowl against his chest. He was in recharge, which was a relief to Bluestreak. The lifeless stare reminded him of a corpse, and seeing Prowl like that was almost too much to handle.

“Yeah. Gonna see if we can't find a trailer. There's meant to be a depot in the direction we're headed. If we find one that's in-tact, moving him on the freeway will be a lot easier.”

“We'll be a huge eyesore – any seeker'd see a trailer in miles and no reason not to attack an undefended trailer!” Bluestreak hissed. Jazz patted him on the shoulder and smiled.

“And that's why we're gonna go real fast, bud!”

  
  


Going real fast turned out to be about as much as a plan as it sounded like: with the trailer, sneaking out of Praxus by freeway was almost impossible, but driving fast only exacerbated the issue. They made it out of town, past the blockades and out of the melt before they were spotted. All it took was one seeker, and the trailer was blasted off the road, and Bluestreak with it. The elevated highway collapsed faster than Jazz could outrun it, and all three fell into the rubble below.

Bluestreak didn't quite remember landing, or the fall. He was on his back in his altmode, and when he transformed to try to crawl out, he realized how lucky he had been – he had landed beside the remains of what looked like a lightpost, and the sturdy bit of steel hadn't buckled under the weight of the portion of road that had fallen on top of him, making a safe hole. Still, he ached – the fall hadn't been short, and it took concerted effort to swap modes – slowly and painfully, he was sure he wouldn't be changing back any time soon. It was even more work to turn himself over in the tiny space and push the block of reinforced steel off himself.

It was dark. Bluestreak sat in the rubble and the quiet for a moment, looking around, trying to remember what had happened. The remembering hit him like more falling concrete – Prowl was still in the trailer. He scrambled to crawl the rest of the way out of the hole that had saved him.

The trailer wasn't far away. It was crumpled like a tin can, singed on one side where the seekerfire hit it. It sat upright, like a proud sculpture, iconic in a way. Bluestreak scrambled over to it.

“Prowl?? Prowl?” He called. He dug his fingers into the crumpled steel, pulling at the cracks, peeling it open.

But inside, it was empty. Someone else had already pried the other side open, and Prowl was not there. Bluestreak stood still for a moment. The tension snapped like an elastic pulled too thin, panic flooded into his mind like static, electrons pulsing painfully around his processor. He turned and ran around the other side, scanning the rubble.

“Prowl? Prowl!” he called. His voice came back to him in the sounds of tired metal groaning as if disturbed from its sleep, wind hissing through hollowed out homes. He pressed his hands to the sides of his face. “Prowl, please, answer me! Prowl!”

“Bluestreak?” Bluestreak turned so fast he nearly tripped. Jazz was standing, rubbing his shoulder tenderly, and Bluestreak felt like his spark was falling down into his fuel tanks.

“Jazz, I – lost him,” the words were tiny.

“He couldn't've gone far, right?” Jazz said immediately, unconcerned. Bluestreak wanted to slap him – how could he be so flippant? “Don't worry, we'll find him, mech.” Bluestreak felt the words pressing against his intake like a purge, but he swallowed them, letting the anger sit in his tanks instead.

 

Prowl hadn't gone far, in the end. They found him a few blocks away in the remnants of a park, sitting on a bench like nothing was wrong. One of his doorwings was snapped into an L, it trembled and twitched. The other was simply missing. Prowl sat dumbly, he'd descended into another one of his miniature comas, and for once, Jazz was glad – he probably couldn't feel anything, at least. He was smeared with his own energon and coolant.

Bluestreak rushed over to his brother immediately. Jazz knew Bluestreak was on the verge of hysteria, and wondered what exactly had happened to him on the frontline that the thought of losing Prowl was enough to drive him over the edge. It had to be bad.

“We gotta keep moving, here. We're gonna have to leg it, so may as well go under the freeway.”

“You're kidding,” Bluestreak was checking over the damage on Prowl's back and applying emergency welds to make sure he didn't lose more energon. “Prowl's not walking.”

“I carried him around for like two weeks, it ain't that hard,” Jazz replied. Bluestreak glared at him.

“No! He needs medical attention. We have to call for a transport, and get him to a base, where he can get treated! What, you think he's getting better on his own? You're nuts, Jazz! And paranoid!”

“Someone hand-delivered him to the cons, Blue – I know you're worried but you can't freak out,”

“You're nuts! He could have valuable intel – less valuable every day you wasted hoping he'd magically get better and worrying about moles and spies it got less and less valuable! You don't have to tell whoever you're calling that you've got Prowl just – tell them you're the one that's injured! Or me! It wouldn't be a lie! You're gonna get us all killed 'cos you're paranoid and delusional!” Bluestreak jabbed a finger at him.

“You're right – he could have valuable intel. But the best he's got is the identity of whoever delivered him to the 'cons, and it'll be worthless if whoever that is kills him before he can tell me,” Jazz replied, but then held up his hands as Bluestreak bristled. “But you're right. I thought I could get him outta Praxus faster, 'cos I banked on his head resetting. I get now that it ain't gonna. He has to see a proper medic.”

“Ratchet'll know what to do. And he's not a spy, and he can keep a secret pretty well,” Bluestreak interjected.

“Fine. You're right. But he can't come here by himself. I'll think of something – for now, we may as well walk. That seeker might come lookin' and the closer we get to Iacon the easier it'll be for someone to come get us.”


	6. 6

Prowl could hear the sound of rain, and thunder. He felt so tired, but he wasn't sure why. Had it been a long day at work? He unshuttered his optics and glanced up. Bluestreak was holding him cradled against his chassis, but Prowl was too tired to frown. It was so comfortable to be held this way. He looked out at the storm. They were sitting outside, the acid and rain cascading down in sheets just beyond where they were sitting, forming a current down the road. They must have been sitting and waiting for a transport, the acid wouldn't eat their plating but it would eat the paint, which would be inconvenient, and itchy. He must have fallen into recharge while they'd been waiting, he guessed. There was distant rumbling, hot flashes of blue and pink. Prowl dimmed his optics.

“This is nice,” he muttered quietly.

“What – Prowl?” Bluestreak asked, then shifted a bit.

“I don't think I've seen you in a while,” Prowl mumbled. He tried to think of the last time he had seen Bluestreak, but nothing came to mind. “Did you go away somewhere?” he asked.

“I – Prowl – I, yeah, I went away,” Bluestreak stammered.

“That's too bad. I missed you.” Prowl tried to shift to get comfortable again, but it was hard to tell where his arms were, all his sensors and circuits felt clogged with silent tinsel. It didn't really matter. It was warm.

“Prowl, do you know where we are?” Bluestreak asked very quietly. Prowl made a non-committal noise and shuttered his optics, but Bluestreak jostled him a bit. “Prowl?”

“P....Praxus?” Prowl stumbled over the idea. It felt like that wasn't quite the right answer.

“Can you tell me the last thing you remember?” Bluestreak continued. Prowl frowned, the warm heat radiating through his head was making it hard to think, thoughts lost in the cottony cloud of electrons that muffled his mind.

“I was....at work, wasn't I? We got....caught out, right?” Prowl guessed.

“Where do you work?”

“I....work at a...My name is Prowl, I'm an enforcer so I...work...at a...” There was something building underneath the heat, a sharp ache in his processor. “I'm tired,” he muttered, “can this wait until we get home?” He settled back against Bluestreak's plating, trying to recapture that warm feeling.

“Yeah....okay, sure, it can wait until we get home. Do you still live in that duplex?” Bluestreak asked.

“Du...duplex....I....yeah, I....I live there,” Prowl mumbled.

“Oh.” Bluestreak paused. “You wanna stop and get some, uh, some engex?”

“I don't drink engex,” Prowl frowned, that seemed like a given, though he wasn't sure why. “Please, I'm really....I'm tired, I have a...processor...a p....pain.”

“Sorry. Do you – can I do anything?”

“Just...talk low...tell me about, uh, your...your trip,” Prowl could feel the ache in the back of his head and for some reason, fear radiating from his spark. “I wanna...hear your voice...”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Of course. I'll tell you all about my, uh, trip,” Bluestreak replied quickly. Prowl smiled slightly and settled in as Bluestreak started to prattle on. He didn't hear much of what he said before he drifted back into recharge.

 

Bluestreak felt hollowed out. Ratchet pushed an energon cube in his hands, but even though his tanks were empty, he didn't feel like drinking it. He felt like the impact of the energon pouring into him might sting, and he couldn't bear yet another ache.

“You said he was talking earlier, right?” Ratchet asked. They were in an abandoned medical center in a tiny town between Praxus and Iacon that had long since been evacuated. Ratchet had come with Trailbreaker and Hound, but neither was in the room with them, having taken up guard posts elsewhere. They'd brought rations and medical supplies, and there was still equipment in the medical center to use, but everything was operating on a choppy little generator they'd brought with them. Ratchet was using nothing but a couple of flashlights to examine Prowl in the dark.

“Yeah, but he was having some memory issues. Thought he was still an enforcer in Praxus,” Jazz explained, but Bluestreak shook his head.

“No, it was worse than that. I – he was having trouble, so I fed him some false information,” Bluestreak fought the urge to ramble and tried to be clear. “See I asked him if he still lived in this duplex, and he said yeah, he did live in a duplex. But he never lived in one, he always lived in this shitty tiny little apartment. I always tried to convince him to get a better place but he said it was 'cost effective' and – well, so I lied to him, and he just agreed with me,” Bluestreak bit down on a servo anxiously. Ratchet frowned at Prowl, who was having yet another of his death-like spells.

“He said he had a headache after that and passed out,” Jazz supplied.

“I also asked him if he wanted some engex, you know, playing along, but he corrected me right away saying he didn't drink it,” Bluestreak added. “Which is true, Prowl's never touched the stuff.”

“It sounds like some general memories are intact, but he's lost details,” Ratchet mused. “I don't know if that means the memories are deleted, or if he's having trouble accessing them. There's a lot of physical damage I can see to his processor – mostly heat related. You said he was plugged into some kind of supercomputer?”

“Yeah. My guess is they were using it to feed him info and forcing him to do tactical analysis on it, and that's why the assault on Praxus has been so coordinated,” Jazz explained. Bluestreak stiffened.

“You mean – Prowl's been coordinating the whole decepticon offensive?”

“Not voluntarily,” Jazz held his hands up to appease Bluestreak. “It's not his fault, Blue,”

“I know that! He wouldn't glass his own home!” Bluestreak snapped. Ratchet stopped his analysis of Prowl's head to turn to Bluestreak, putting his hands on the jumpy sharpshooter's shoulders.

“Blue, I think you should sit down and drink that cube,” Ratchet murmured quietly. “You're not gonna help anybody if you have a breakdown before we get back to base.”

“That's a problem too, Ratchet. I'm absolutely positive someone on our side handed Prowl over. There had to be a major intel or security leak for him to end up back in Praxus,” Jazz stepped in. Bluestreak glared at him, but Ratchet firmly pressed him into a visitor's chair.

“That's definitely an issue. But anything I can try to do for him out here in regards to code is going to be dangerous – this equipment is old, ill-maintained, and only one of us has any expertise, and I'm not primarily a coding specialist,” Ratchet warned evenly, turning to Jazz. Bluestreak half-heartedly sipped at the energon, tapping a pede on the floor.

“I know, Ratchet. You don't gotta fix him entirely – just – get him coherent enough to tell me who got him.” Jazz held out his hands pleadingly, and Ratchet rubbed his chin, frowning.

“Alright. I'll see what I can do. But I won't endanger the patient,” Ratchet added quickly when Bluestreak tensed. “I'll plug in directly to monitor using my internal instruments, that way I'll be sure to get the most information about his condition I can,” he added, turning to Bluestreak. “All I'm going to do is poke around a bit, see if I can't stimulate his memory core into replaying some files. We'll learn if the files are corrupted or if he's just having trouble accessing them – if it's the latter, my poking around should help show him where to access things. If it's the former, well, then there's nothing I can do – but don't worry, a coding specialist or a mnemnosurgeon would probably be able to reconstruct most of the data if it came down to it.”

“Yeah,” Bluestreak murmured, uncharacteristically quiet. He looked at Prowl, who was laying on the medical slab, awake, but completely unaware of anything around him. He felt like the hollowness inside him was becoming a void, threatening to crumple his chest inwards. Ratchet put bright red hands on his shoulders.

“It'll be okay. No matter what happens, Prowl's got you, and you're not gonna let anything bad happen to him, right?”

Bluestreak nodded slowly, shuttering his optics. Jazz rubbed the back of his head, looking concerned but not sure what to do. Ratchet turned back to Prowl, shining a flashlight on his head. He sighed, then started opening access panel's to the Praxian's head. Bluestreak watched, tapping his foot, while Jazz handed Ratchet any equipment he needed.

“Alright, connecting...handshakes...well, me, waving my hand, no handshakes...syncing up....establishing baselines...alright, confirmation sent....and no reply. Bad start,” Ratchet mumbled, eyes lighting up with datafeeds. “Oh. This is odd,” he muttered, frowning.

“What?” Bluestreak asked, leaning forward.

“The security suite's pretty much dead. Doesn't look like it was a nice death, either. I can root out the remains safely since they're not closely connected to anything else, that might help...” Ratchet wasn't paying much attention to Bluestreak, leaning over Prowl. “Now, baseline functions I'm....getting a basic patch? Doesn't Prowl have his own maintenance code for his self-repair and whathaveyou? It's not like he's a new frame, I assumed he'd have customizations,” Ratchet asked, looking at Bluestreak, who grimaced.

“I mean, I assumed – he would, he's Prowl, he loves to optimize things, that's his thing, finding new optimizations is like – I dunno – candy for him,” Bluestreak replied.

“Oh, Hoist installed that patch. I took Prowl to him after I found him when he was having serious overheating problems. Said his repair suite had told his nanites to fuse a ruptured coolant line to his fuel tank instead of fixing it properly,” Jazz piped in. Ratchet frowned a little.

“That's odd. His self repair data must have been deleted, or...” Ratchet trailed off, trying to comb through the only code he was familiar with, and finding nothing familiar at all about it. “Ah. It's been overwritten,” Ratchet explained.

“With what?” Bluestreak slid closer to the edge of his seat, gripping the energon cube and grinding his teeth together a bit.

“Uhh, let's see. I think....hmm. This looks like mechanical memory files, I think?”

“He rewrote his own self-repair functions with movement files?” Jazz crossed his arms, tapping his fingers against his forearm. Bluestreak's doorwings were practically trembling, and Jazz grimaced at him – he was worried Bluestreak might jump up and disturb Ratchet's work.

“Has he been having trouble moving?” Ratchet asked quietly. Jazz tapped his chin.

“Uh, sometimes. Hasn't been able to walk really, he's been able to crawl. No equilibrium. Goes rigid if you turn him onto his back, like positional paralysis, and gets dizzy if he turns his head too much at once.”

“So it's not basic movement files. Ah, I see, those are where they should be, I think. There's....not much in his memory core,” Ratchet muttered. Prowl suddenly winced a bit and Bluestreak nearly jumped up, and Jazz tensed and shifted to the foot of Prowl's slab so he could tackle him. They all stood there for a second, tense, except Ratchet, who wasn't paying attention.

“It's badly fragmented. There's been a lot of compression,” Ratchet said, unaware of the stand-off that was happening right in front of him. “Let's see what's in equilibrium – ah, these are memory files,” Ratchet said. “I guess he shuffled everything around to free up space, but it still looks like someone picked up his head and shook it like a cocktail,”

“Makes sense,” Jazz said, fixed on Bluestreak, who was staring at Jazz, energon cube in one hand. He slowly started to sit back down, and Jazz started to relax.

“If that's the problem, it shouldn't be hard to fix. We just need to move everything back to where it's supposed to be,” Ratchet said, smiling slightly. He looked over at Bluestreak.

“That's good,” Bluestreak nodded, staring at Jazz, “can you do it?”

“I can do some of it. I'm still not a mnemnosurgeon, and I don't want to make any major changes. For now, I'll try partitioning the fragmented memory in his core, and swapping the mechanical memory we found with the self-repair module Hoist gave him. If it goes well, I'll try to grab the memory out of his equilibrium and move it back to his memory core. That's all I want to attempt, because those files are in the wrong directories, but otherwise, seem well-contained. Everything else is scattered and badly fragmented, and I'm not skilled enough to try to reconstruct any of it.”

“Alright,” Bluestreak mumbled. “Thanks Ratchet.”

“Don't thank me yet,” Ratchet frowned. “This is still tricky. Prowl's been pretty dormant, I'm not actually sure where he is in here. His security suite is completely gone, now, but if he starts, uh, thrashing around, so to speak, I might drop something, if that makes sense.”

Bluestreak put his head in his hands, exventing heavily. Jazz reached out gently to reassure him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“It's gonna be fine. Prowl's been nice and calm since you had your little rain chat.”

“Mmhmm,” Bluestreak mumbled, tapping his foot harder. Jazz patted his friend, who nodded at him with a very small smile. Then Jazz turned back to Ratchet, taking a position back up near Prowl's head.

“Alright. Going to get started. Jazz, you mind tapping into me and monitoring for me? In case there's bad code or – a surprise,” Ratchet said. Jazz gave him a thumbs up that he was pretty sure the medic didn't notice, then wired into a medical port Ratchet provided in his shoulder.

“Sure thing,” Jazz said.

“Alright, wish us luck, Bluestreak,” Ratchet said, smiling. Bluestreak replied from behind his hands:

“Good luck.”

 

Prowl jolted awake. He was half buried in the sand, exhausted with trying to keep his head above the water. But there was a light, suddenly, bright and boring directly into his optics. He struggled, but unburying himself was no easy task. By the time he pulled free of the mud and sediment of his mind the light had moved on, roving around his oceans. Prowl sat at the bottom, petrified. What was it searching for?

Something else was moving in the darkness, too. A rising pressure that pushed the water against him like a breeze, he tried to surface to escape it, reaching for his moon. But a film like ice had formed across the surface of the ocean, trapping him along the bottom, where the monster that followed in the shadow of the current lived. He pounded on the ice, and the moon above him suddenly became an eye looking in, pinning him in its gaze, making him fever-bright. He tried to grab onto anything to save him from the current, his fingers scrabbled with the surface. If he could make an equation, he could hold it, he carved mathematics and algorithms like a web to hold him in that gaze.

But it was not enough, the current tore him asunder and carried him away, out of the searchlight which pursued tenaciously. Prowl tried to keep his optics open, tried to pry his body away to escape the sensation and free himself of this memory once and for all. He dug his fingers into his seams and tried to pry himself open, tried to spill out, lose shape. If he could scatter himself it would not matter where the current went, there would be too little of him to carry away. He would settle at the bottom, indistinguishable from the sand.

And he could see it, now, a creature with eyes, a smile, teeth, reaching. It wanted to curl him up, it wanted to hollow him out and fill him, become an obsession, a fixed point. Prowl would not give it the honour of being a part of him, he would unmake himself first. He shed pieces, his enforcer emblems, his black and white plating. His fingers found his center, he pressed deeper. Warmth leaked out of him, he could feel hands on his hands, gently gripping his wrists, trying to pull him away. Silver. They were not his hands. Prowl felt himself growing limp as those hands pushed him away, urging him to go back. He had hidden his final island inside himself, he realized, and it was not an island he wanted to sink.

He felt weak, the current carried him ahead of the monster faster now that he had lost enough parts, but it would catch him soon. He could not surface, and he could not bear to tear out this final piece. He curled around it, orbiting it like a tired star. He trembled when the searchlight found him again. That light had its own warmth, but he did not know what it was, it burned him with alien intent.

And then he heard a sound, and a shock, and something gripped him. He struggled, but he did not feel teeth. Something dragged him out of the ocean, and left him on a shoreline. Prowl seized the opportunity, he scrambled up the beach and onto a large, flat stone. It was square, sharp and hard, but it was firm. He held onto his final piece and trembled. He looked at his moon, still an eye fixed inward on him. He rested his head on his knees and shut his optics. He looked at the ocean, where the current frothed and beat against the ice that had formed over it. He had escaped for now, but he was less than before, and he was so tired. He gripped his final piece and slept.


	7. 7

“What happened?!” Bluestreak gripped Jazz by the shoulder as Jazz pulled himself out of Prowl's head. Ratchet was still in, monitoring the disconnect and making sure there hadn't been unintentional damage.

“His consciousness tried to surface, but I blocked it to stop it from accidentally corrupting any of the memory files I was moving. But I – something went wrong. He started losing integrity,” Ratchet explained, finally extracting himself as well.

“Why? Why would he do that?!”

“It looked like there was – a virus, or a piece of corrupted code maybe? It didn't look to me like it managed to infect him, but he started falling apart anyways.”

“I jumped in to try to pull him out while Ratchet had his hands full moving things,” Jazz explained. “And I did. Or what was left. Put him in the memory folder Ratchet'd just partitioned. Not really where he's meant to be, but he might be able to reconstruct himself from whatever's in there.”

Bluestreak pressed his palms to his head, and then bent over and pressed his knuckles to his knees. Ratchet continued to monitor Prowl, who had fitfully slipped into recharge.

“Fine! Fine. Okay. He's okay. He's okay, right? He's fine, he's gonna be just – fine, we didn't make anything worse, right?”

“We didn't make anything worse, that's right,” Ratchet nodded. “Blue, I think you need to get some rest. We'll hole up here and see how Prowl is in the morning, alright? There's lots of berths in here – I can put one right beside your brother for you so you'll know if he wakes up, does that sound good to you?”

“Y-yeah,” Bluestreak muttered. Jazz moved out of the gray Praxian's line of sight – he had a feeling Bluestreak wasn't too happy with him at the moment. He wasn't a medic, so jumping into Prowl's head hadn't been particularly wise, and if something  _ was _ worse, he knew he would be to blame for it. But Jazz had some experience digging around memory files – he usually didn't have to do it with much regard for the amount of damage he was causing, however, and it was usually only in mechs who had fully-functional processors. No, if something was wrong, he was wholly to blame, and he would accept that.

And then there was Prowl. The thing Jazz had pulled out of that thoughtless ocean of half-deleted dump files and corrupted thought threads had felt immeasurably tiny, more like the mind of a new mech than a senior enforcer. He looked over at Bluestreak, who was sat beside his brother, barnacled to his hand. He hoped whoever woke up was still enough of Prowl that Bluestreak could recognize him.

 

Bluestreak could barely recharge. He slipped in and out of sleep fitfully, waking up gasping out bursts of static as the pressure building up somewhere just below his bumper finally reached a critical mass and bubbled out in the form of garbled mumbling. It was hard not to try to fill up the silence around him, but Prowl was recharging so calmly. If it weren't for the dents and the missing doorwing, Bluestreak could've deluded himself into thinking his brother was just sleeping.

After one last fitful awakening that left him with a sense of tingling static scurrying across his plating, Bluestreak finally resigned himself to wakefulness. He turned over to look at Prowl, and then nearly jumped off his slab. Prowl stared back out at him, flinching when Bluestreak moved.

“Oh – Prowl,” Bluestreak murmured, recovering and crawling over. He reached out and put a hand on his brother's head to check it wasn't too hot. Prowl had been prone to overheating ever since he was new.

“Bluestreak,” Prowl whispered, staring at him wide-eyed, “what's wrong with me?”

“W-what?” Bluestreak was startled that Prowl even knew who he was, he jerked his hand back.

“I can't move,” Prowl's voice was tiny. He sounded calm, but Bluestreak knew better.

“A-are you sure?” Bluestreak asked, reaching back to put a hand on Prowl's head.

“Yes,” Prowl looked around. “I – don't have – full sensor...input,” he added.

“Oh – you're missing a doorwing, so I'm sure Ratchet shut down the relays to the other one, too, you know, for the pain,” Bluestreak replied.

“I....was I....why is it that I'm...missing a doorwing?” Prowl looked around, struggling to find words.

“Y-you were in an accident,” Bluestreak explained. “Prowl, can you tell me the last thing you remember?”

“Why?” Prowl glanced away from him, uncomfortable.

“U-uh. You – maybe hit your head a bit, too, and you know medics say memory is a good indicator of whether or not there's any serious processor damage,” Bluestreak said quickly, rubbing a thumb back and forth across Prowl's helm. It was starting to warm up a bit.

“I....right, I...was....at...training?” Prowl replied uncertainly.

“Yeah? For what?”

“I....combat training,” Prowl replied. “B...basic self-defense,” he added. Bluestreak blinked, and it took a concerted effort not to bury his head in his hands again.

“Okay,” Bluestreak smiled. “That's good. That's good to know.”

“Something's wrong,” Prowl looked back at him again, and Bluestreak could see the panic rising. “Bluestreak, you're not telling me something. Why can't I move at all?”

“I really don't know, you were really hurt. Here, can you feel it when I touch your hands?” Bluestreak quickly reached down and picked up one of Prowl's hands, grasping it in both of his.

“Yes,” Prowl calmed down a bit.

“Well, that's good, right? Maybe Ratchet just put a medical block in in case you thrashed around or something, that happened to me one time when I got really overcharged and didn't initiate my shutdown protocols right, I transformed while I was out, remember? Pretty funny,” Bluestreak smiled.

“I don't remember that,” Prowl frowned a bit. Bluestreak squeezed his hand.

“I'm sure it'll come back to you, it wasn't a big thing so,” he said quickly. “Maybe I didn't even tell you about it, come to think of it.”

“Bluestreak, it's very dark. Where are we?” Prowl interrupted.

“Uh, a hospital,” Bluestreak said. “There's been a – they turned out the lights 'cos there's other bots, uh, recharging,” he lied quickly.

“Oh,” Prowl murmured, but seemed to accept the answer, though he still seemed confused. “Should we be quieter?”

“No, no, it's fine, I'm sure no one would mind, you've been offline for a while so I'm sure they'd be happy you were talking, really I should get Ratchet, but...” Bluestreak trailed off. He didn't want Ratchet or Primus forbid  _ Jazz _ to start poking around in Prowl's head again, looking for intel.

“Okay,” Prowl murmured. “You're....on a slab. Were you hurt too?” he asked.

“No, no, I'm find, well, a little dented, but really nothing major,” Bluestreak replied. Prowl squinted at him.

“You....look odd,” he mumbled. “Did something....change? Did you get a new paint job or...I don't remember if it's been a while since I saw you, did you go somewhere?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, I did go somewhere, but I came back when I heard you got hurt,” Bluestreak continued to massage Prowl's servos, which suffered a minor spasm. “Oh, did you move your hand just now?”

“Yes,” Prowl replied. “It feels – it tingles.”

“That's not bad,” Bluestreak said encouragingly. Prowl continued to look around, seeming confused and uncertain. “Are you still feeling tired?”

“I feel low on fuel,” Prowl mused, “but I can't....access my internal diagnostics.”

“Oh, sure. I'll – here, I'll get you some, I'll be right back.” Bluestreak released Prowl's hand and slipped off the slab, slinking off to look for where Ratchet left the energon he and the others had brought. It was probably in the case they had brought his other tools in, which Bluestreak recalled Hound and Trailbreaker had been using as a seat as they alternated watches while everybody else recharged a bit before beginning the trek back to Iacon.

Bluestreak crept out the door of the disused medbay and out into the hall, glancing up and down it. It was so odd to see something so in-tact, he thought. Iacon would be alright too, he realized. It felt like he hadn't been anywhere unmelted in years.

Hound was sitting in a room across the hall, which had windows and a view of the street outside – it was hard to tell what the room had been for. There was very little furniture, one portable slab, a chair or two – maybe it had been a supply closet. That would explain the lack of anything, certainly. But other than that it was just a normal looking space, there were no scorch marks or scratches, no evidence of impact or trace of spilled energon. Hound sat near the window, but not too close – hiding was more important than seeing outside. Trailbreaker was also there, asleep by the door, and Bluestreak stepped over him gently. He flashed a light at the floor at Hound's feet so the scout would know he was approaching.

“Oh, Bluestreak,” Hound whispered, smiling and gesturing for him to come over. Bluestreak took a seat on a chair across from him.

“Where's Jazz?” Bluestreak asked quietly. Hound pointed at the door, and then to the left.

“Door down from us. Didn't want us all clustered together if a bomb hit,” Hound replied. “Couldn't recharge?”

“No,” Bluestreak admitted, pressing his servos into the back of his neck and rubbing the stiff cables. “But I need a cube of energon. Med-grade if you got it,” he added.

“Sure,” Hound said, getting off his case so he could open it. Bluestreak instinctively started looking out the window to keep watch while Hound wasn't paying attention. “For you?”

“No,” Bluestreak muttered. “Prowl's awake. Sorta. Said he was feeling low on fuel,” Bluestreak scooted forward a bit to get a clearer look at the street and then the sky.

“Oh, that's good. Is he alright? He looked really messed up,” Hound said, pulling out the cube. “You're brothers, right? I don't know him really well, I've only seen him once or twice at debriefs.”

“Yeah, we are. He's – not very social. He's really boring. But in a – in a good way, you know? Like good boring. That doesn't make sense. He's like, he's very uh, calm, and doesn't do....risky things so when you just wanna chill he's good, he just does like, boring stuff, like puzzles, and strategy games and vids, and boring stuff like that, but he's like...good at it so it's nice,” Bluestreak rambled as he scanned the street. A light passed in the sky, but it wasn't low enough to worry about.

“Yeah, I get it, I like that stuff,” Hound said, offering him the cube.

“Well what I meant by that was...you know, you don't see him around because he doesn't do like, real social stuff,” Bluestreak said, then stopped, pulling out his rifle as two Seekers went barreling by at a lower altitude. They traced parallel light trails and left their audials ringing with the rumbling of twin engines, but they did not stop or even slow down as they did their fly-by. Bluestreak didn't relax, he waited a solid minute before he finally let himself vent again. He heard Hound exvent also.

“That had me for a second,” Hound murmured, then offered Bluestreak the cube again. “You should wake up Ratchet, he'll wanna know Prowl's up.”

“Yeah,” Bluestreak muttered, lowering the gun and taking the offered cube. “I'll – wake him up in a bit. I kinda...just wanna talk to him for a bit, you know, he's my brother, so.” Hound shrugged and took up his spot sitting on the supply case. Bluestreak stood up to leave, gun in one hand and cube in the other.

“I hope he's gonna be okay. I'd like to play a strategy game with him sometime maybe, when I'm stuck on base off-duty,” Hound smiled.

“Yeah, I bet he'd like that,” Bluestreak replied, smiling back before leaving and crossing the hall again. He paused, looking at the shut door to the room Jazz was supposedly in. He wondered if the saboteur was listening – he probably was. Bluestreak frowned, angry at the invasion of privacy. Then he suddenly wondered why he was so mad – he and Jazz were friends, weren't they? But he'd prioritized the mission over Prowl's safety. But Prowl would probably have wanted that, he was always brutally tactical when it came to his own well-being. Bluestreak shuttered his optics, exventing. He would worry about Jazz later.


	8. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short update this time, sorry! Everybody always writes Ratchet as captain grumpypants but I've always thought he'd be, uh, more patient with his patients when they were really badly hurt, haha.

Prowl could make out the ceiling, but that was about it. He tried looking around the room – he could definitely hear the quiet fans of one other mech, but other than that, nothing. He thought that was strange, but he wasn't sure why. It didn't fit with what Bluestreak had said, either, he had implied multiple people were in the room, but it was just one other mech. He shuttered his optics briefly, trying to figure out what the other problem was. The sound of one mech venting...they were in a hospital, there should've been the sound of....equipment? Was that it? Why couldn't he hear that sound?

And then the sound of something rumbling far above him, and fear shot through his body like a net, anchored to his spark. He felt himself go rigid and his optics snapped open, staring at the roof. What had that been? He didn't know the sound, but he felt entirely too exposed, like the roof might fall on him at any second. He tried to move his hands, he wanted to cover his chassis, curl into a ball, but his servos only twitched. Discomfort rang through him and he winced, squirming a bit. This felt wrong, he should be sitting up, shouldn't he? His plating started to itch along his wrists and forearms, but he couldn't scratch at it, he ground his teeth together and tried to move his legs, which made his legs itch, too. The discomfort continued to escalate, he felt too small for his plating, every time he tried to move he felt like a minibot loosely strapped into an ill-fitting exosuit.

He heard something moving and went still, trying to listen. Another bot getting up, whoever it was in the room with him had woken up. He winced when a light came on, pointing at his face, then turned and tried to look into it – but it was hard to adjust his optics to see past the light.

“Oh, Prowl, you're up,” whoever-it-was said, pointing the light out of his face and walking over. White plating, red hands, gray chevron. “How are you feeling?”

“I can't move,” Prowl replied. “Who are you?”

“I'm Ratchet,” replied the other bot, setting the light into a fixture above him and leaning over to check his optics.

“Oh. Are you a doctor?” Prowl asked.

“Oh, yes. Do you remember me?” Ratchet asked, running a scan over Prowl's head and down across his chassis.

“No, Bluestreak said your name and...context....” Prowl mumbled.

“You spoke to Bluestreak?” Ratchet asked, surprised.

“Yes, he left to...get energon,” Prowl said. The medic grunted, rubbing his chin.

“I wish he'd come to wake me up first. How long have you been up?”

“I....don't know. Not very long,” Prowl said.

“And you can't move? That's not too odd. I put a minor block on your systems to make sure you didn't thrash around. It's a little odd it didn't deactivate after you woke up,” Ratchet murmured. “Here, I'll port in and remove it. I want to do a more thorough check-up on your head here, anyways,” Ratchet said, pulling a cable from his wrist. “Is that alright?”

“Yes,” Prowl replied. “I would like to be able to move.”

“Of course, I imagine it's quite the source of anxiety for you. You haven't had any audio/visual issues? Jazz said your inputs kept cutting out,” Ratchet said as he connected the cable to a port in the side of Prowl's neck. Prowl frowned as he felt the medic entering his systems, but the touch was light and noninvasive. Still, it was strange. Wasn't there supposed to be....a protocol they had to do?

“Jazz?” He said suddenly, focusing on the name. “Who is Jazz?”

“Jazz, special operations. He's the one who recovered you,” Ratchet replied, a bit absently.

“Special...operations?” Prowl frowned. “He recovered me...from...from the wreck? I was in an accident, wasn't I?”

Ratchet paused, then looked down at Prowl. “Ah,” he murmured. “Can you tell me the last thing you remember?” Prowl frowned. What was going on?

“I was at....basic training. Basic combat training,” he said.

“For what?”

“I...for becoming an enforcer,” Prowl replied. Ratchet's face shifted, but the expression was there and gone faster than Prowl could read it.

“Ah, I see. And Bluestreak said you were in an accident? What else did he say?” Ratchet began to ask when the door opened, and Bluestreak came in, carrying a cube of softly glowing medical grade and...a rifle? He stopped when he spotted Ratchet, like a child caught sneaking out of bed, and then quickly put the thing that looked like a rifle away. Why would Bluestreak have a rifle? Prowl must have seen it wrong.

“Ratchet, you're up?”

“The jets woke me. Thank you for getting some energon for your brother....ah, there's the block,” Ratchet said, and suddenly Prowl felt a small jolt to his body, which then relaxed. He immediately tried to sit up, relieved he was able to, but Ratchet gently put a hand on him. “Slowly please,” he said. Prowl did as he said and immediately found himself leaning right as a major weight imbalance registered. Ratchet took his shoulders to hold him up as Bluestreak scrambled across the room to grab his other arm.

“Should be resting still,” Bluestreak said, smiling nervously.

“He should be fine to sit up for a bit. He does need that energon,” Ratchet said, plucking the cube from Bluestreak's hand and holding it out to Prowl, who took it. It was hard to grasp, his hands felt large and dumb. Ratchet patiently helped him hold it to his face and tip it into his intake. Prowl frowned.

“Something wrong?” Bluestreak asked.

“I – it tastes...weird,” Prowl muttered.

“Well, it's bitter, you never liked bitter,” Bluestreak shrugged.

“Bitter?” Prowl asked. He continued to drink, but he couldn't remember anything tasting like this. He wasn't sure he remembered anything tasting like anything. Did he always drink energon this way? He felt strangely like he'd never done it before, but everyone else seemed to think it was normal. He drank the entire cube, but everything felt off afterwards. The new weight was throwing off his balance, maybe?

“Better?” Bluestreak asked hopefully. Prowl grimaced a bit, but nodded.

“I think so,” he mumbled.

Another roaring noise above them, this time much louder. Prowl instinctively tried to duck, putting his hands over his head, and Bluestreak practically threw himself over top of him, pinning him uncomfortably. Ratchet also jumped, but then quickly moved to start packing up medical equipment.

“That was too low,” Bluestreak hissed, and Ratchet nodded. The door opened and a third mech Prowl didn't know entered, he was black and white with a visor-band. He seemed sort of familiar, but Prowl didn't know why.

“We gotta move,” hissed the new mech. “They musta got a read on us before, circled back to double check.”

“You think they'll – drop, uh, stuff on us just in case?” Bluestreak stumbled a bit over his words, which made the other mech tilt his head in confusion.

“I mean, they're seekers. They'd do it just for fun,” replied the visor-mech. Prowl's attention was turned away as Ratchet slowly began to tug his arm, trying to help him get off his slab.

“What's happening?” Prowl asked, involuntarily shivering. His spark felt like it was spread too thin, and his tanks were having trouble processing the fuel.

“It's alright, Prowl. We need to evacuate. You're going to ride with me, don't worry,” Ratchet replied. “We're gonna have to get you down to the loading bays first. You think you can walk if I help you?”

“Yes,” Prowl replied, but he wasn't actually sure. His pedes touched the ground, but they felt too long, and the sensors inside didn't quite register the ground as a solid object. He nearly fell when he started trying to put weight on them, but Ratchet caught him fairly easily. He had a case in one hand, and so could not dedicate both hands to helping Prowl. Bluestreak was stepping around the slab towards them to assist, but the visored mech shook his head.

“Blue, we need you for cover fire. I know it ain't fair but you're a way better shot than Trailbreaker. He's got a shield generator, he'll keep your brother safer than you can at that distance,” said the visored mech. Bluestreak's face flashed anger, and then anguish.

“You're right. Scrap. Primus, why do you have to be right?” Bluestreak mumbled, and pulled out the rifle again. Prowl stared, confused, his head started throbbing.

“What...” he started, but Ratchet started pulling him along.

“Just come with me for now, alright?” Ratchet said, smiling calmly.

“Stay with Ratchet and Trailbreaker, okay? I'll catch up to you, Prowl. You're gonna be fine, alright?” Bluestreak said, putting a hand on Prowl's shoulder. Prowl frowned.

“Alright,” he said, ultimately succumbing. He didn't know what was happening, but he trusted Bluestreak.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, wanted this to be longer, but I got very ill suddenly this week, and I've been in a lot of pain! So here's what I've got for now.   
> Thanks so much for your comments....I don't reply 'cos I'm a lil shy, but I do love them all a lot...

Bluestreak sat on the sagging floor and waited. Jazz had him waiting on top floor, in a corner. The seekers wouldn't spot him on their next fly by and any explosions would just send him flying out the window, so overall, it was about the safest spot they could pick to snipe from. Hound was on the ground below nearby, and so was Jazz, waiting.

Ratchet broke cover first, Bluestreak watched the ambulance tear away through the acid-stained roads, closely followed by Trailbreaker, who was practically hugging the ambulance's side – necessary to encapsulate him in a forcefield if they needed one. Prowl was with them, but Bluestreak couldn't see his brother tucked inside the ambulance. He took a deep vent and turned his scope skyward, listening to the fast-approaching sound of twin engines. Using an ambulance as bait seemed like a new low, but Ratchet was safer out of the building than in it so long as Trailbreaker was with him.

With autobots to chase, the seekers elected not to blow up the old hospital – they ripped past the building to begin their bombing run on the road Ratchet and Trailbreaker were rushing down. Bluestreak took aim – his options were blue or purple, and in the end he picked purple.

The shot went straight through the jet's fuel tank, causing a small explosion that ripped one of his turbines out and sent him careening to the left. His partner had to pull up to dodge the debris, effectively aborting the bombing run, and then took off to assist the crashing purple jet.

<Let's go!> Jazz commed him. Bluestreak nodded, putting the rifle away. He slapped a hook on the railing and rappelled down to where Jazz and Hound were already waiting in altmode.

“We gonna go finish them off?” Hound asked as they peeled out.

“Not worth the risk,” Bluestreak replied quickly. “Don't know what's ahead of Ratchet and Trailbreaker.”

“It was clear when we drove here,” Hound replied.

“Might not be anymore,” Bluestreak said, trying to outrun the sturdy green scout. Jazz easily kept pace with both of them.

“Blue's right, not worth the risk,” he said calmly.

“Sorry, didn't mean to argue, just wanted to reassure you the road's clear. Was clear,” Hound corrected. Bluestreak continued to push his speed as hard as he dared in the slick conditions, he wanted to catch up to Prowl as soon as possible. But Ratchet and Trailbreaker were faster than he’d thought, Bluestreak couldn’t even see the lights of their lamps through the fog curling across the roadway.

Without warning, the curling fog in front of them swirled and parted, a screaming low-flying jet tore its way down the road towards them. Bluestreak swerved and tried to break, swinging his bumper around and into the jet’s path while clearing his front end, before desperately trying to regain speed to pull out of the way. But it was hard to gain traction in the wet, the jet clipped his fender and sent him into a spin. There was a sickening moment while his equilibrium tried to catch up with his new angle, confused by the pain signals from the crumpled fender. Bluestreak slammed on his breaks to try to pull himself back together. Where were Jazz and Hound? He could hear the engine -- circling, somewhere above him in the fog. He turned around and sped off, trying to escape, trying to catch up to Prowl. 

 

At some point they pulled over. Prowl didn’t really register Trailbreaker helping him out of the back of Ratchet’s altmode, he felt dizzy -- worse than dizzy. Shapes were hard to pick out, there was a permanent fuzz, a cloud of electrons buzzing at the edges of his vision. Things took too long to register as objects, and he couldn’t really feel Trailbreaker touching him. He crumpled to his knees as soon as he was free of the trailer. Ratchet had transformed by then, and took his arm gently to stop him from tipping over from the disbalance the missing doorwing caused.

“How are you feeling, Prowl?” he was asking with a voice that was tinny and distorted. Prowl frowned. 

“Not….good,” Prowl replied. “I don’t seem to have internal diagnostics running.” 

“That’s alright,” Ratchet replied. “Let me give you a quick once-over, and we’ll sit for a second. We need to wait for someone to meet us here.” Ratchet gently lowered him so he was resting on his back, the medic tapped into a medical port and started scanning. It felt weird, and Prowl grimaced. Something was wrong, there was some missing protocol. Ratchet felt more like him than he was, swimming in some distant ocean where Prowl was maybe only a school of fish, or a dimming star.

“Your sensor suite is a little finicky. I’m going to give it a reset, so expect a blip,” Ratchet said, and then Prowl’s world suddenly went dark, and silent, and numb. He froze, terror gripping him. He’d had this sensation before, he couldn’t remember where, or when, but everything in his body told him  _ not to make a sound _ \-- 

And then the world came back, in pieces, fitting itself back together neatly, and Prowl sighed, relaxing. He felt so tired, but it was hard to keep a hold of what was happening around him. He tried to recount -- the hospital, Bluestreak, Ratchet, having to leave because of a noise? A horrible, frightening noise. Being chased by that sound, it faded away into the distance, now they were….somewhere, waiting for someone. 

“Who are we waiting for?” 

“Ironhide, and Mirage. They’re going to help us smuggle you into Iacon,” Trailbreaker replied. Prowl frowned. 

“Smuggle?” 

“Not actually smuggle,” Ratchet chided Trailbreaker as he checked Prowl over for any physical damage from the ride -- it hadn’t been smooth sailing, Prowl remembered, but Ratchet was an ambulance, and had managed to hold Prowl secure throughout their flight. 

“Not actually smuggle?” Prowl asked again. 

“They’re just there to, ah, help speed you through customs,” Ratchet replied, looking at Trailbreaker, who looked confused. “Since you need medical attention. It will go a lot easier.” 

“Oh,” Prowl muttered. That seemed odd, but why would Ratchet lie to him? 

“Er, yeah,” Trailbreaker belatedly agreed, rubbing the back of his helm. 

“Why don’t we chat a bit to pass the time, Prowl?” Ratchet asked. “Can you tell me a bit about yourself? Bluestreak talks a lot about you, but I’d like to hear it from you,” the medic smiled calmly. Prowl could hear rain pattering down around them, but he couldn’t feel it -- they were under some kind of overhang off the highway. A reststop? 

“What would you like to know?” Prowl asked. He thought maybe he should sit up, but Ratchet was fiddling with some of the cabling in his arms and back, and it felt very nice. He thought he might slip into a light recharge, maybe. 

“So you’re in training to become an enforcer, right? Did you always want to be an enforcer, or were you sparked for that function?” 

“I was sparked, but I wanted to do something else,” Prowl shook his head. 

“What did you want to do?” Ratchet asked, realigning something where his damaged doorwing was that unleashed a cool, tingling sensation. 

“I wanted to operate space bridges…” Prowl murmured. 

“Oh, that’s quite interesting. Do you -- think you’ll like being an enforcer, when you finish your training?” 

“I...am not good with people, but I like the...tactical and policy….aspects,” Prowl murmured.

“Are you nervous about it?” 

“Yes…I am afraid I will do poorly, and that I will be unhappy with the work….” 

“Ah, that’s normal. I’m sure you’ll do well, if you do your best. How is your doorwing feeling? Is there any soreness when I do this?” Pressure applied to his back made him squirm a bit, ribbons snaking around under the plating, vibrating and making the back of his jaw hum. 

“No, but it is uncomfortable.”

“That’s good, if it’s not painful. I think maybe you should get a little recharge, now. I’ll wake you if anything happens,” Ratchet said. Prowl nodded absently, he already felt half his circuits were dead.

“Of course, thank you,” he murmured before letting himself slip down into the comfortable warmth that Ratchet worked into his joints. 

 

“So he doesn’t remember anything?” Trailbreaker asked once Prowl slipped into recharge. “Like, about the war?” 

“No, I don’t think so.” Ratchet rubbed his helm, trying to smooth away an imagined bump. “It’s quite bad. I didn’t want to say it in front of Bluestreak, but there’s a lot of evidence of other kinds of damage -- to his body, not just his head,” Ratchet explained. 

“Oh?” Trailbreaker asked, sitting himself down more comfortably so he could watch the road from the abandoned rest stop they were hiding in. 

“Surgical. He’s been opened right up, to the spark. It looks like pieces were removed and put back -- like he was dissected and reassembled. I didn’t detect anything unusual or additional when I did my scans, so I think the intention behind the surgery was most likely torture,” Ratchet said, shifting himself and the Praxian in his lap a bit to watch the same direction as Trailbreaker. Trailbreaker grimaced. 

“Eesh. Poor mech. I’d probably try and delete my own memory too if I had somethin’ like that in there,” Trailbreaker muttered. Ratchet cycled his optics. 

“That hadn’t occurred to me, actually,” he said. “That part of the reason he was struggling to recall was because he didn’t  _ want _ to.” 

“Er, I mean, I just assumed, yanno,” Trailbreaker mumbled. “If I was him. Don’t like the idea of someone messing with my spark.” 

“Mm. Maybe I should ask him harder questions next time. Make him want to remember.” 

“That seems cruel,” Trailbreaker rubbed the back of his helm. 

“Certainly, but not any more or less cruel than reintroducing a mech who thinks he’s virtually new to the entire war, especially considering the state of his home,” Ratchet replied. He vented. “I mean, it’s not exactly ideal either way, but if I was him, I would want to remember as much as possible, than feel my fate was completely controlled by strangers.” 

“Sure. I wouldn’t, personally,” Trailbreaker shrugged, “but you’re the doctor.” 

“Don’t get cheeky with me,” Ratchet scolded. Trailbreaker gave him a lopsided grin, and Ratchet pretended to scowl back, wagging a finger. Trailbreaker snickered before turning his attention back on the road. They were hiding under the remains of a transit shelter that had been crushed by a failed decepticon advance on Iacon some time ago. 

“When’s ‘Hide and Mirage getting here?” he asked, lowering the tone of their conversation. 

“Should be soon,” Ratchet replied, also quietly. “I expected Jazz and the others to have caught up by now, though. I hope the seekers didn’t get them.” 

“Aw, don’t say that. I’m sure they’re fine. Maybe one of ‘em just threw a tire and they’re on foot or somethin’.” Trailbreaker shifted a bit uncomfortably, holding his rifle across his lap. Prowl shifted a bit, and Ratchet compensated, trying to keep the damaged enforcer in recharge. 

“Of course, that’s probably what happened,” Ratchet replied, rubbing soothing circles into Prowl’s plating. The tips of his fingers gave off minute charges of electricity to dampen localized circuits and confuse them into sending pleasurable signals instead of painful ones. The enforcer relaxed, letting out a long, shaking vent. Ratchet frowned. 

“Either way, I hope someone gets here soon,” he murmured. 


	10. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still feeling a bit under the weather, but finally managed to hammer out enough for an update -- thanks very much for all the well-wishes, they really cheered me up!

Jazz felt cold. The plating along one thigh had been peeled back like a hangnail, shredded and curling in on itself. The sensation of air brushing on the exposed circuitry was like teeth made of ice scraping across his leg, a sting of pain that he felt grinding against his molars. He turned himself over and stood up. 

Hound was nearby, he could see the green scout extracting himself from some rubble -- he looked more or less unhurt. Jazz could barely remember what had happened -- he recalled being blasted off the road by a screaming red Seeker -- probably Starscream, though it’d been hard to tell in the fog. But past that, he couldn’t recall how he’d ended up in the ditch, or what’d happened to the Seeker. 

“Hound?” He asked, limping along towards the scout, who turned his head and quickly started towards him. “Where’s Blue?” he asked. 

“Dunno, lost him back a bit. Got hit off the road by Screamer, but I didn’t see him get shot, so I imagine he’s not too bad off,” Hound said, tucking himself under one of Jazz’s arms. 

“What happened to Starscream?” Jazz asked. 

“Flew off. Probably to go get his idiot brothers,” Hound replied. “Here, listen, we’ll get you to some cover, and then I’ll go find Blue, bring him back, and we’ll continue on, yeah? You think you can drive?” 

“Er. Dunno, maybe,” Jazz replied. “How bad is it?” He gestured down to his leg. 

“Uh,” Hound turned his optics downward, “no sparking, and I don’t see any leaking. But the metal’s pretty twisted. Might break something if you try to change. But it’s good, I got enough room for you to ride,” 

“Not if Blue’s also scrapped,” Jazz added as Hound temporarily set him down in some better cover to tend to his injury before they moved on.  

“We’ll figure that out when we get there,” Hound said, lowering Jazz to the ground behind a wall. He took out a medical kit and stapled a couple of welds down over the exposed metal, making Jazz suck in a sharp breath. 

“Makin’ me miss the gentle ministrations of our Dear Doctor Ratchet,” Jazz smirked. Hound huffed.

“Not all of us can be designed with such dainty digits, Jazz.” 

“What I would not give, Hound, to feel the caress of those soft and soothing servos, instead of your hammer-fisted grabbers,” Jazz lamented, draping an arm around Hound’s shoulders. The scout tried to stay serious, but Jazz could see the smile tickling his lips.

“You’ve wounded me. Really hurting my feelings with these, uh, terrible insults, to my, uh, frametype, and all,” he said, helping Jazz limp along. Jazz leaned in close to speak directly to Hound’s audial. 

“Of course it’s not your fault, Hound, we can’t all be born with perfect architecture like Ratchet, who is a flawless masterpiece of engineering. Indeed, we do serve an essential function with our grotesquery, as only in juxtaposition to subpar craftsmanship such as ourselves can anyone  _ truly _ appreciate Ratchet’s rare resounding radiance,” Jazz explained, pressing his free hand to Hound’s chassis. The scout finally snorted out a laugh. 

“Oh, he’d love to hear that, I’m sure,” Hound chuckled, and Jazz laughed as well. 

“Honestly dunno if the good doctor shares my sense of humour,” Jazz replied as they turned their attention to picking their way across the rubble and back to the road. He retrieved his rifle with his free hand and kept an eye out while Hound looked for evidence of Bluestreak. 

“I’m sure you’d get a chuckle if he was in the right mood. Ah, here, I can see Blue’s tracks. Looks like he peeled off heading towards Iacon after he righted himself -- still in vehicle mode, so that’s good,” Hound said. 

“I dunno if it’s so good. Blue’s not been right in the processor since, uh, his brother went missing, and I’m worried it’s only gettin’ worse, t’be honest,” Jazz said. “He might blow Prowl’s cover if he misses Ratchet on the road and comes screaming into Iacon looking for him.” 

“I haven’t seen Blue in a while, but yeah, he’s...changed. He used to run his mouth but not like -- this. Nervous, now.  But I mean, everybody who’s spent any amount of time on the frontline’s got weirder. But I mean -- seeing your hometown  _ melted _ ? That’d mess anybody up. How many Praxians are even left?” Hound asked. Jazz kicked at a rock. 

“Not many. Decepticons’ve been targeting the evacuees, even more since I bet they’re lookin’ for their missin’ tactical computer,” he muttered. “It’s handfuls. A fraction of a percent.” 

“Primus,” Hound stood up,  putting a hand over his chassis. “I didn’t know it was that bad.” 

“Yeah, but let’s get moving, yeah? Don’t want those seekers comin’ back for vengeance an’ all, and I wanna catch Blue before he does something stupid,” Jazz said. Hound nodded, still with his hand pressed above his spark, and then transformed. Jazz climbed into the back of his alt, and then sat with his rifle across his knees. 

“Come on, Blue. Don’t let me down now.” 

 

“Well reprogram me with a rivet roller, you didn’t tell me it was Prowl you wanted me to come get. He’s AWOL, you know that?” Ironhide was standing with his hands on his hips, frowning, and Ratchet rolled his optics. 

“He was kidnapped. Jazz found him wired into a decepticon supercomputer using his processor as...well, a processor,” Ratchet explained. Ironhide crossed his arms. 

“Issat so? Well, he’s got some explaining to do, either way,” 

“Either way?” Trailbreaker asked. Mirage put a hand to his faceplate. 

“If it’s true he was kidnapped or if he ran off!” Ironhide said.

“Woah, hey, I don’t think he’d turn traitor. The mech’s been through the ringer, he doesn’t even remember there’s a war on - “ Trailbreaker began, but Ratchet cut him off, standing and jabbing a servo into Ironhide’s chestplate. 

“If you don’t stop running your mouth, next time you’re in for major repairs, I’m going to install a mute button,” Ratchet growled. Ironhide scowled back at him. Ratchet stared up at him with wide optics, daring him. Ironhide’s scowl deepened. Ratchet’s optics cycled impossibly wider. Ironhide’s face twitched and the scowl started to turn into an expression of some discomfort, the face one makes when they’ve ingested something into their fuel tanks they really ought not to have, and are now considering the inevitable combustion issues they are going to suffer imminently. 

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean I thought he’d turned, just that, you know, home state melting, mighta run off to the frontlines when he wasn’t supposed ta’...” 

“Please. This is Prowl we’re talking about, not Bluestreak,” Mirage cut in. “Even if he’s a secret leaking spark, he’s far too practical to run off.” 

“Arright, quick though, listen, we can’t mention the fighting or anything to ‘im. He literally thinks he’s like, brand new. Can’t remember a thing. Gonna sort it out later, just wanna keep ‘im calm for now, yeah?” Trailbreaker held his hands up appeasingly as Ratchet finally backed down from Ironhide, resetting his ruffled plating. 

“Keep me calm?” Prowl’s voice chimed in. Everybody paused, turning to look at Prowl, who was sitting propped against the rest stop. He stared at them.  

“Er. Well, we don’t want to upset you,” Mirage hesitantly started as Ratchet started to inch back over to the injured Praxian. 

“What would I be upset about?” Prowl asked. Trailbreaker and Ratchet glanced at each other. 

“Oh, just. You know, there’s a lot going on -- “ Mirage tried to continue before Prowl cut him off. 

“You are all lying to me about something,” Prowl said flatly. Everybody looked at each other, and Prowl tried to pull himself up, but Ratchet stopped him so he could help him instead. “Where’s Bluestreak? He was -- with us, and something happened? There was a terrible noise…” 

“We don’t know where Bluestreak is. We’re going to try and find out as soon as we can,” Ratchet explained carefully. Prowl winced and put a hand to his head. 

“It’s all -- slipping away from me -- what was that sound? That...that noise that...was above me and I…” Prowl sagged against Ratchet, turning into the medic as he tried to curl in on himself. “My head -- my head hurts s...very badly and….and no diagnostic,” he muttered, vocalizer spitting out mouthfuls of cottony static between words. “S-s-s-s-sc...scare...why can’t I recognize that noise?” his voice suddenly cleared up, but he kept frowning, optics over-bright. Ratchet tapped into a medical port while Ironhide crouched down to watch Prowl. 

“Seems like maybe you’re missin’ a memory file, huh? It’s not a big deal. I’m missin’ loads. See, sparks got memory too, you know that, right? ‘Cept it’s useless garbage mostly.  _ Feelings _ and all that unintelligible junk. You know Kup, yeah? Maybe not I guess -- er, well, he’s so friggin’ old, he’s missin’ as many memory files as anybody’s ever lost, I imagine. Trusts his gut on stuff, like me. ‘Scus the spark knows some junk. So whatever’s happenin’, your spark’s tellin’ ya, but your idiot brain ain’t puttin’ it together for you. Just trust your gut,” Ironhide explained, shrugging. Ratchet looked at Ironhide and shook his head in minor disbelief, and Ironhide threw his hands up. “I’m JUST tryin’ to be HELPFUL,” 

“You really were programmed with a rivet roller. All this time. How could I have overlooked it,” Ratchet murmured in quiet disbelief. 

“Very ineloquent,” Mirage agreed. Ironhide threw his hands up and stomped away, and Trailbreaker laughed. 

“Don’t worry, you don’t have an idiot brain, Prowl,” Ratchet consoled. 

“I...do I?” Prowl asked. He seemed disoriented again, so Ratchet helped him get to his feet so they could get him ready for transport. 

“You don’t,” Ratchet corrected. 

“I don’t have an idiot brain,” Prowl repeated. 

“Yes, your brain is very smart, unlike Ironhide’s brain. I know your balance is off, how does walking feel?” 

“I cannot feel my feet,” Prowl replied. Ratchet frowned. 

“Well, that’s not good, is it?” 

“No,” Prowl agreed. 

“Can you tell me where we’re going?” 

“...Iacon?” Prowl answered questioningly. Ratchet smiled. 

“Yes, that’s right. Why are we going there?” 

“I...don’t know,” Prowl replied. “I was in an accident, wasn’t I?” 

“Yes, that’s right. You know who I am?” 

“You’re Ratchet,” Prowl said. Trailbreaker looked over at Ratchet, rubbing the back of his helm. Ratchet returned the concerned glance. 

“Yes. Let’s get you loaded up, hm?” 

 

<We got a little problem at the gate,> Ironhide’s voice chimed in along the comm. <Some kinda ruckus. Can’t tell what it is from here.>

<It’s Bluestreak,> Ratchet replied. <He must have missed us on the road. I didn’t hear him go by?>

<Well, it looks like they’re tryin’ to detain him? Pacify, though, not arrest.>

<He’s been in a panic, considering his brother,> Ratchet explained. Ironhide’s engine gave a thoughtful hum. 

<Gonna seem odd if you and I don’t transform to try to help pacify ‘im. Mirage, you think you can hop Prowl out mid-transformation and walk him in?> Ironhide asked. 

<If you knock Prowl out, certainly. However, with him awake, I cannot predict how he might react to such a maneuver,> Mirage replied over comms that Prowl was not privy to. 

<I can administer something. It’s pivotal that Bluestreak doesn’t blow our cover. We’ll need to write him off as spouting nonsense if he insinuates in any way that we have Prowl, and detain him for special care,> Ratchet explained. 

<Seems pretty extreme, doesn’t it? He’s just worried ‘bout his brother,> Trailbreaker’s engine made a slight skipping noise as he bounced over a pothole. 

<I know, but spy stuff’s all  _ delicate _ and  _ precise _ and all that scrap,> Ironhide replied. Mirage remained the image of composure, smiling calmly at Prowl, who was starting to seem anxious. 

“Here, Prowl. You seem nervous, are you low on fuel? A little energon might help soothe your nerves,” Mirage said, fetching a small cube that Ratchet pushed to him from a side compartment. It was a slightly deeper blue, indicating it had some medical function. Mirage handed the cube to Prowl, who took it and eyed it -- not with suspicion, but some confusion. 

“Will it be…” he paused, glancing around as if he could visually locate the word he was looking for. “Last time it was weird?” 

“Weird?” Mirage asked, smiling politely. 

“It...had a…” Prowl gestured at his mouth. 

“A taste?” Mirage offered. 

“That seems right. It tasted bad. That sounds right…” Prowl murmured absently, pressing the cube to his lips. “Do -- have I always drank it like this?” 

“Er -- yes? I believe that is the standard method by which one imbibes fuel, though I’m not familiar with your particular anatomical quirks…” Mirage tilted his head.  

“It seems strange,” Prowl said, looking at the cube. He looked at Mirage again. “Will it taste bad, like before?” 

<It should be sweeter,> Ratchet provided. 

“Ah, no, it’ll be a bit sweeter, I think,” Mirage said. 

“Oh. I guess it’s a different colour….is it not the same as it was?” 

“Er, no, this is a bit different than what you had before, which I assume was medical grade?” Mirage said. 

<Yes,> Ratchet said. 

“Oh. And I should drink this?” 

“Yes,” Ratchet’s voice came over the internal speakers. 

“Yes,” Mirage nodded as well. 

“Okay,” Prowl said, and then awkwardly pressed the cube to his lips, sipping up the energon. “Oh. This isn’t bad,” he said, halfway through the cube. He quickly drank the rest. 

“Well I’m glad you like it better,” Mirage chuckled. Prowl nodded even as his optics started to dim. 

“I think...maybe I’ll….recharge?” he murmured. 

“That seems like a great idea,” Mirage nodded as Prowl slumped, optics offline. 

<What in Primus’s name was  _ that _ about?> He immediately asked Ratchet over the comms as he settled Prowl a bit more, holding him so he could be ready to hop out of the ambulance when the time came. 

<I think he deleted all his taste references. And all the related data, I guess. Knows he has to fuel, doesn’t remember ever having done it before. Or what energon tastes like. Preferences are more of a hardware thing, so he knows what he likes and doesn’t like when he tastes it, but he’s got absolutely no reference point to understand that sensory input,> Ratchet explained. 

<Like he was fresh outta Vector Sigma,> Ironhide said. <Primus. He’s really scrapped. You sure you can fix ‘im? Might be a write off,>

<Don’t say that!> Trailbreaker gasped. 

<Don’t say that!> Ratchet threatened. 

<Oof. Sorry, sorry,> Ironhide veered a few feet away from the bristling ambulance. <We’re gettin’ close, let’s try an’ focus now, eh?>

<Then please, cease speaking, as virtually every word you issue from your vocalizer is wont to transform Ratchet from his usual loving self and into a terrible terror.> Mirage concluded, settling Prowl over his shoulder and engaging his cloak. 

<Hey! Don’t put it on me that he’s got a bad temper!>

<He’s only ever mad around you, ‘Hide. He’s nice to everybody else,> Trailbreaker helpfully explained. 

<It’s my fault then, is it?>

<Well, yeah.>

  
  



	11. 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooaf I've had a bit of a rough week, sorry this took a while! Might be a bit touch-and-go the next little bit 'cos real life is kickin' my bartowskies. Thanks for your patience!

Ironhide transformed first, he hopped a step to carry through with the momentum of his vehicle mode, then another to counter the slippery tarmac. Bluestreak was shaking one of the guards, holding him tight by the wrists, leaning into him, back arched like an electric current. 

“Hey, hey, Blue!” Ironhide called, heading over with his hands warily out in front of him. Ratchet transformed somewhere behind him, he didn’t hear Mirage and Prowl touch the ground. Ironhide reached out to take the sniper by the shoulder when he didn’t seem to hear him, he was stammering, talking so fast he was stumbling over his words. 

“Where is -- the -- Ratchet -- did he come here before I did??” Bluestreak rolled his shoulder, trying to shake Ironhide off. 

“I’m right here, Bluestreak,” Ratchet said, walking up to the other side of the sniper. Bluestreak’s head snapped around, he turned fast enough to tear Ironhide’s hand off his shoulder and seized Ratchet by the shoulders, pressing down into the medic. 

“And where is Pro--” he started, but Ratchet put his arms around Bluestreak’s neck and pulled him in, knocking him off balance. He held the shaking sniper, pinning his face into his neck. 

“Now now, it’s quite alright,” Ratchet said, stroking Bluestreak’s back with long, gentle motions. Ironhide frowned, he knew this trick. Bluestreak’s trembling doorwings started to relax. He heaved out long ventilations and his joints started to loosen, first his arms, then his knees. He sagged like his weathered and melting home. 

“All alright now,” Ratchet said softly, pulsing more low-level electromagnetic pulses along Bluestreak’s spine, dulling the nerves like water underground. 

“He’s good now?” asked Ironhide. Ratchet nodded, turning the defeated sniper over so he could support him to walk in. 

“He’s going to need a little mandatory berthrest. I’ll take him to the medical pavilion straight away,” Ratchet said, proceeding forward with Bluestreak towards the gate. Ironhide nodded at the guard, who nodded back, looking a little uncertain. Ironhide looked up at the two sentry posts for extra confirmation, he received a flashing red light.

Trailbreaker wasn’t far behind the group, he looked up at the gate and smiled for Red Alert’s scanners, another flashing red light before the small door in one side of the gate finally opened. Ratchet went through with Bluestreak first, followed by Ironhide, a gap which contained Mirage and the unconscious Prowl, and then Trailbreaker, who waved back at the guard outside. 

“Sorry about the ruckus, I’ll cover the report, alright?”

 

The last vestiges of civilization had evaporated in Iacon. There was little damage to the city, but there was little left in terms of what could be called daily life -- the major roads were barricade after barricade, the quickest paths to the central command hub had been rendered circuitous and known only to the Autobots. Alleys and sidestreets had become refugee camps and makeshift barracks. Buildings were stripped of their cabling and circuitry, rendering all but the most defensible unusable for more than shelter. 

Bluestreak could hear the foot traffic, the talking around him, the constant hustle of people. It was so different. Everyone was busy in Iacon, it wasn’t the constant silence punctuated with gunfire. It was a relief, in a way. Even if it wasn’t normal, if Bluestreak offlined his optics, he could pretend, construct a whole universe from these noises and live in it. 

 

“Ooh, look at these snazzy digs,” Trailbreaker joked as they entered Ratchet’s quarters. There was nothing in them except extra medical equipment and a couple of berths, one that looked like it was used (sparingly) and one that looked like it was perhaps being stored here. There was nothing to set the domicile apart from a medbay, all typical signs of residency had vanished. It wasn’t even messy, Ratchet kept everything neatly organized and ready to be moved at a moment’s notice. Ratchet deposited Bluestreak on the more lived-on of the two berths. 

“There’s no surveillance in here, but I’ve got enough equipment to work on our patient. However, we’ll still need a coding specialist,” Ratchet said as he turned the dazed sniper onto his side. 

“What did you  _ do _ to him?” Mirage asked after the door snapped shut behind him and the spy disengaged his cloaking mechanism, holding the still very unconscious Prowl. Ratchet gestured to the larger and more medical of the two berths, the stored one. 

“That doctor’s got a EMP generator wired into his hands. Apply enough little pulses to a localized area and he’ll knock the system out. If the system happens to be your nervous system, well…” Ironhide shrugged. Ratchet frowned at him. 

“It’s a medical device, not a weapon,” Ratchet snapped. Trailbreaker laughed and Mirage scoffed at Ironhide as he laid Prowl out. The spy suddenly tensed. 

“His optics are on, he’s conscious,” Mirage breathed quietly to Ratchet, who hurried over.

“Prowl?” He asked. Prowl blinked, and Ratchet smiled at him, but glanced at Mirage, who looked back at him with some concern. Prowl worked his jaw, but made no sounds, he just stared. 

“That’s not good,” Ironhide muttered, and Ratchet waved a hand at him and Trailbreaker to get them to be quiet. Trailbreaker clapped a hand on Ironhide’s back, hiding a laugh behind a wide smile at the scowling soldier. 

“Prowl,” Bluestreak mumbled sluggishly, sitting up. He stood on shaking legs and fell the distance between his berth and Prowl’s, catching the edge of his brother’s and pulling himself up.

“Should we -- “ Mirage began, but Ratchet shook his head. 

“They’re not going to break each other at the moment. Ironhide, Trailbreaker, I’d appreciate it if one or both of you would help me keep an eye on them. I’m in need of some recharge and I need to check in on my other patients. Mirage, you need to find Jazz and Hound for me, and I need to decide which of our resident coding specialists to trust.” 

“Sure, can keep an eye on ‘em,” Ironhide said. 

“By which I hope you understand I mean call me if anything at all happens,” Ratchet flicked Ironhide in the chassis, and Ironhide sighed. 

“Yeah, of course. I’m not stupid.” 

“Oh, really? Well, that’s news to me,” Ratchet said as he headed towards the door with Mirage. Trailbreaker bit back another laugh. Bluestreak curled around his brother. 

 

Jazz and Hound limped to Iacon, they were taken into the medical pavilion when they arrived. Ratchet wasn’t there, Grapple and Wheeljack had been left to clumsily cover his absence. 

“That hurts, Wheeljack,” Hound whined as the engineer welded the scout’s superficial damage back together. 

“Oop -- sorry, not used to workin’ on living machines,” Wheeljack chuckled, picking up an EMP generator and giving a small localized pulse. Hound sighed. 

“Where’s docbot? I miss him,” Jazz teased as Grapple worked on his leg. 

“Well, he said he had something quite dire to look into with Perceptor,” Wheeljack explained. Hound looked at Jazz, who quirked an eyebrow and turned onto his side to look at Wheeljack. 

“You and Ratchet three-wheeling now, huh?” he asked. Wheeljack bonked him with a wrench. 

“Oh -- well, I guess I understand why Ratchet does that all the time, now,” Wheeljack said, then chuckled again. “But no, he said he needed help with some code for something.” Hound continued to look uneasy, so Jazz stretched out, which upset Grapple who was still working on his leg. 

“Jazz, cut it out!” Grapple grumbled. 

“Sorry, sorry. You know I love to tease. I gotta follow up on Bluestreak, though, I’m responsible for extracting him an’ all. You know where Ratchet put ‘im?” Jazz asked. 

“Oh, yeah, I’m really worried about him,” Hound added, fidgeting. “He seemed to be really feeling it.” 

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Well I dunno where Ratch put ‘im exactly, but he’s not here in medical, I guess he wasn’t hurt too bad. Maybe took him to the barracks or the residences? Couldn’t say fer sure, I can comm ‘im and ask?” 

“Nah, mech, it’s good, if there’s one thing I’m good at it’s finding people. And well even if it weren’t true that’s what we got my good friend Hound here for, right?” Jazz chuckled. Hound nodded in agreement, sitting up from where Wheeljack was wrapping up a few last patches. 

“Well, I think you look fine. You feel fine?” Wheeljack asked. Hound smiled and nodded. 

“Yeah, I’m good.” 

“How’s Jazz?” 

“He’s fine now,” Grapple scooped up a bunch of tools, “I’m going to check on other patients.” 

“Well, if Hound’s fine, and Jazz is fine, you can probably head off to find your Praxian. Say hi for me, will ya? I missed that kid!” 

“Sure thing, sure thing,” Jazz said, distracted by a telltale ripple in the air nearby. It wasn’t something the average set of optics could pick up, Jazz smiled and steered Hound around the haze while Mirage followed behind them. 

 

Bluestreak felt like a void. His palms tingled, but he couldn’t will himself to stand up from the seat he had on Ratchet’s berth. Perceptor and Ratchet were there, and talking, and they had knocked Prowl out. 

Prowl hadn’t responded well when they’d tried to sit him up and put him in a cerebral scanner. Perceptor had explained the machine, what it was for, why they were using it -- to scan more thoroughly for hardware damage before they started messing with software problems. Prowl had comprehended, been calm, and agreed this seemed like a normal medical procedure. 

But he wouldn’t move to sit in the machine. He continually agreed he understood but simply refused to budge. When Perceptor and Ratchet had tried to help him into the chair, he’d suddenly panicked and tried to bolt from the room. Ironhide held him down while Ratchet administered the sedative. He had been too desperate trying to escape to even scream. 

And Bluestreak had sat on this berth, unable to bring himself to move. Ratchet had told him he might feel a bit lethargic while the circuits in his spine recalibrated, but Bluestreak didn’t feel lethargic. 

Prowl was in the scanner, now, but he was still unconscious. They had secured him with restraints, though Ratchet had been opposed to the idea, Ironhide convinced him it was the pragmatic approach -- Prowl needed to be awake for the exam, and he could hurt himself or someone else if he tried to make another break for it. Ratchet and Perceptor were arguing about the best way to go about restoring Prowl’s mind to its current highest level of functionality without frightening him -- should they shut down his sensor network? It could interfere with the readings, and it could cause him to panic anyways -- the sense of being awake but being without a body was not a condition that many mechs liked to find themselves in. Bluestreak could empathize, after all, his current condition was not much different. 

“Hey.” Ironhide sat down next to him, and Bluestreak glanced over, but it was hard to work up the willpower to even bother turning his head -- he wanted to look at Prowl, anyways, sat there like a doll. Bluestreak knew why his brother didn’t want to sit in the chair -- Prowl may not have had access to the memory that would explain his fear, but Bluestreak’s imagination could supply hundreds of possibilities. 

“You doin’ alright, Blue?” Ironhide asked, voice quieter than usual. Ironhide wasn’t known for being quiet. 

“Not really,” Bluestreak replied just as quietly. He was also not known for being quiet, he wasn’t sure if the relative silence made him want to laugh or cry. 

“You wanna talk about it?” Ironhide offered. Bluestreak shook his head. 

“No.” 

“This’s gotta be tough. S’hard to see anybody stripped down like this,” Ironhide offered. “Sorry, listen, I ain’t good at the touchy-feely kindsa peptalks. But you’re obviously strugglin’ to cope with this, and I want you to know you got friends you can count on, alright? No matter how everything goes. And Prowl’ll be okay, one way or another.” 

“Thanks,” Bluestreak muttered. Ironhide vented and tapped his feet a bit, rubbing one of the joints on his servos. He turned his attention back to Perceptor and Ratchet, who looked like they were almost done with their assessment of how best to wake up Prowl. 

“I think we’ve simply got to wake him and deal with his panic. I understand completely that as a medical professional it’s against your protocols to cause undue distress to a patient, and I agree one hundred percent with you on that, but I think it simply cannot be avoided. We will receive the best data by doing a scan when he’s got as much of his processor functioning as possible, and for that, we’ll need to see how he’s dealing with sensory input. Additionally, doing it this way will allow for the shortest scanning time, which will cause less stress overall. We can knock him out as soon as it’s complete, remove him from the chair, and put him somewhere more comfortable to recover while we conduct our analysis.” Perceptor concluded, gently clasping his hands together. Ratchet sighed. 

“Well reasoned, Perceptor. As much as I don’t like it, I have to concur.” 

“Then we are in agreement. Let’s proceed, shall we?” 

“One second. Bluestreak, do you think you could talk to your brother while we do this? It might help keep him calm, since you’re the only person here he actually  _ remembers _ .” 

“Oh, yes! That may cause some stimulus to his memory core and provide valuable data during our scan!” Perceptor clapped. Ironhide slapped Bluestreak on the shoulder, then offered him a hand getting to his feet. 

Getting across the room to Prowl felt like wading through an ocean. His feet felt sucked back down to the floor whenever he moved them. It felt like it took hours, but eventually he was sitting beside Prowl, holding his hand gently. Ratchet watched the procession with some concern. 

“Alright, I’m going to wake him up. Ironhide, I want you ready in case anything happens,” Ratchet warned. Ironhide stood with his arms crossed somewhere just outside of Prowl’s line of sight, and Bluestreak tried not to look at the big red soldier too hard. He focused on Prowl’s face. 

Prowl woke up slowly. He didn’t seem to register at first that he was sitting, or restrained, he looked over at Bluestreak. Concern replaced grogginess, followed by confusion when he tried to move his arm and found himself unable. Then the panic started to well up, Bluestreak watched it rise like a tide, ebbing occasionally as Prowl focused on Bluestreak’s features. Bluestreak couldn’t think of what to say, there didn’t seem to be any space between them in which words would fit. Prowl pushed himself against the back of the chair, he looked like maybe he wanted to say something, too, but couldn’t find the place to say it, either. His jaw was clamped shut, Bluestreak could hear his teeth grinding. Prowl was gripping Bluestreak’s hand so tightly he could feel both of their servos folding, denting, cracking. 

“We’re half done,” Ratchet said. Prowl thrashed his legs and pulled at the restraints desperately. Bluestreak knew he wasn’t in pain, it was the anticipation that was killing him -- not knowing what was about to happen except that it was  _ going _ to hurt, that there would be less of him after.

“Prowl,” Bluestreak sputtered when the pressure building in his chest became too much, and Prowl’s attention snapped back to him. He gasped, the spell broken for just a moment. 

“Bluestreak?” Prowl said the name with both hope and terror, hope that Bluestreak was here to save him, terror that maybe he wasn’t. 

“You’re gonna be okay. It’s almost over, now,” Bluestreak choked out words. “You’re doing really good. Just hang on another minute or so, okay?” 

“I don’t -- I want to -- why am I?” Prowl asked, but he seemed to be struggling to focus. He kept turning his head and pressing himself back against the chair, then pulling against the restraints and crushing Bluestreak’s hand. 

“And done!” Perceptor exclaimed, blissfully unaware of the trauma occurring as he focused on the test. Ratchet reached from behind Prowl to pulse him with the EMP that would knock him back out. “Yes, I think we’ve got lots to analyze here and compare with the soft scans you took while you were working on him before. Once we’ve run the comparisons and concluded what’s been recoded due to hardware damage and what’s been recoded for other reasons, we’ll do a hardline and scan his damaged code, run more comparisons, and then after that, we should be able to develop our treatment plan!” Perceptor clapped his hands together enthusiastically, Ratchet was busy getting Prowl from the scanner and back onto a medical berth. He pried his hand off of Bluestreak’s. 

“Ah. Let me fix your hand, Bluestreak,” he said, setting Prowl back down in a more comfortable position and returning with some tools. It didn’t take much for Ratchet to weld the injury, Bluestreak got lost in the detail of the red hands methodically and gracefully gliding over the cracks and leaving only soft seams that would fade with time. 

“Bluestreak,” Ratchet was saying. “Do you want to stay here, or do you want to go to the barracks? Or somewhere else?” 

“Here,” Bluestreak croaked. “I want to be able to see him.” 

“I understand. I don’t mind you using the berth, but I’ll have to be here to monitor him, and when I can’t, someone else will need to be here to keep an eye on him.” 

“Sure,” Bluestreak mumbled. He suddenly felt shamed by the fact that Ratchet didn’t consider him to be able to monitor Prowl’s wellbeing on his own -- Bluestreak had become as much a patient as his brother. It wasn’t something Bluestreak could say he was surprised about, but even if he’d only implied it, it was the first time anyone had actually said it outloud. It made it real, and Bluestreak looked down at his hands -- the tingling hadn’t stopped, but they’d regained some of their weight. 

“Sorry,” Bluestreak mumbled. “I dunno -- I’m just -- it’s been really tough and I -- dunno how to deal with everything right now, I wasn’t doing so good with the whole war and I’m doing less good now ‘cos you know a brother is like a fixed point only now he’s not?” Bluestreak tried to explain. Ratchet nodded at him while Perceptor awkwardly collected his findings and edged out of the room. 

“I’m, ah, going to go and analyze some of this data. I’ll come back to you with my results as soon as I’m able,” he said, then darted through the door before anyone could reply. 

“You’ve got a few dents and whatnot yet. I’m going to give you a quick once-over, then you’re going to get some rest for a day or two, okay?” Ratchet said. Bluestreak nodded. 

“I’m sorry,” Bluestreak said again. Ratchet patted him on the shoulder and smiled. 

“It’s not your fault. Get some rest, Bluestreak.” 

 


	12. 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a bit of tense-swapping in this one, but I promise it's intentional!

Bluestreak didn’t remember slipping into recharge, but it felt like it certainly hadn’t been long enough before he was being gently shook awake. He frowned without unshuttering his optics, raising a hand to bat off whoever was shaking him. 

“Bluestreak,  _ please _ ,” Prowl hissed. Bluestreak’s optics snapped open, and it took every ounce of restraint he had not to snap up. Prowl’s optics were overbright, his doorwings, finally repaired, were high and trembling. Bluestreak forced himself to sit up slowly, Prowl’s hands pressed into his chassis. 

“Prowl?” Bluestreak asked blearily. He glanced around the dark room and spotted Ironhide sitting in front of the door, optics offline, probably sneaking in a power nap. Bluestreak frowned, but ultimately couldn’t spite the larger mech. 

“We have to  _ go _ ,” Prowl pleaded, digging his fingers into Bluestreak’s plating with a level of desperation Bluestreak couldn’t recall seeing from his brother.

“Go where? Why?” Bluestreak asked him quietly, taking his hands and holding them. 

“He’s -- they’re -- he’s -- going to come back soon, we -- I can’t let him -- you have to leave, we have to leave,” Prowl struggled through the sentence, thoughts coming and going, only held together by the imperative to escape. 

“Who? Who’s coming?” Bluestreak asked, releasing one of Prowl’s hands to try and grip Prowl’s helm and force his brother to look at him -- it was hot to the touch, Bluestreak winced. Prowl dodged the question.

“We have to go!” he gripped Bluestreak’s shoulder, shaking him. 

“Where are we?” Bluestreak asked him. 

“We’re in -- we’re in the -- the place where -- the room where they….where it…” 

“How did we get here?” 

“I….I was at home, and I…then I was...we have to go!” 

“Where do you live?” 

“Bluestreak, why does it matter!”  Prowl gasped, exasperated. 

“Because we’re not where you think we are, Prowl,” Bluestreak smiled gently at his brother while aggressively comming Ironhide, who’s optics lit up abruptly. Ironhide stood, startling Prowl, and turned on the lights. Prowl shied backwards, he reached out a hand to steady himself and found air as he fell off the berth. Bluestreak tried to catch him, but he only succeeded in making sure his brother didn’t land on his doorwings yet again. Prowl quickly struggled to his knees, cowering behind the berth.  

“But…” Prowl gripped the edge of the berth as he looked around, optics darting between the medical equipment and Ironhide at the door. 

“We’re in Iacon. Ratchet brought you here, remember?” Bluestreak murmured, putting a hand on Prowl’s shoulder. “To do some tests on your head.” 

“I don’t remember how I got here,” Prowl kept looking around the room, confused. 

“You were unconscious when we brought you in,” Ironhide offered. 

“Remember, Ratchet and Perceptor explained the scan to you?” 

“I do...but I…” Prowl finally glanced over at Bluestreak. “But I wasn’t here, was I?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I wasn’t here.” 

“Prowl, I don’t understand. You were here, you were brought here by Ratchet, and I’m here and your head was injured and you’re really, really sick, remember? You’re really sick, and Ratchet brought you here to fix you.” 

“I was...was it here? Did it happen here? Did they…” 

The door suddenly opened and Ironhide jumped, whipping around ready to slug whoever it was in the face -- Jazz danced under the raised fist daintily. 

“Woah, there, take it easy, jus’ checkin’ in on how we’re doin’,” Jazz said. Ratchet followed him in. 

“Er -- sorry. Prowl’s up and at ‘em. Ratch, I got a shift, ya mind if I head out?” Ironhide asked quickly. 

“Sure,” Ratchet was reading a datapad and waved the big red mech off, Ironhide quickly stepped through the door and shut it behind him. 

“What’s goin’ on here, then?” Jazz asked. 

“Jazz?” Prowl said. Jazz threw his arms out. 

“You remember me!” he exclaimed. 

“I….don’t know who you are,” Prowl replied. Jazz slumped. 

“After all we been through, huh? Ouch.” 

“Ratchet, his head is really hot,” Bluestreak said. Ratchet put the datapad down and hurried over to place a hand on Prowl’s head, then pulled out a cooling pack. 

“Prowl, I need you to vent for me,” Ratchet said. Prowl flinched a bit when Ratchet put his hands on his shoulders to hold him. Ratchet took a couple of deep invents, and after a second Prowl started to mimic him. “There, just like that,” Ratchet smiled. Jazz leaned on the berth Prowl was hiding behind, and Bluestreak tensed -- the saboteur was as flippant as ever. 

“What is going on?” Prowl asked after a few more vents. “I don’t understand.” 

“You’re in Iacon,” Ratchet said. 

“I was -- in an accident and you’re treating my processor for...for memory loss?” Prowl put his hands to his head, trying to concentrate. 

“Yes,” Bluestreak said. Jazz frowned. 

“But I was -- I was -- there was a lab and I was...they were...he….we need to leave, we need to escape, don’t….I don’t know why I...feel that way.” Ratchet and Bluestreak looked at each other, Jazz focused on Prowl. 

“What else do you remember?” Jazz asked. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Jazz, don’t,” Bluestreak hissed. 

“You were trapped in a Decepticon facility. You were tortured and turned into a glorified calculator, which is why your memory is more fulla holes than Ironhide’s aft,” Jazz said flatly. Bluestreak moved and Ratchet grabbed him. 

“This needs to happen, Bluestreak,” Ratchet said quietly. Prowl was staring at Jazz, then he was staring at his palms as he pressed his hands over his face. 

“No, no no no,” Prowl said. 

“Yes, Prowl,” Jazz replied. 

“Don’t, don’t do this to him,” Bluestreak whispered. 

“He’s remembering on his own, Blue. The more we lie to him the worse this is going to be,” Ratchet continued. “He’s going to think he’s crazy when he’s not.” 

“I don’t...did someone do this to me? I was...the accident wasn’t...why did someone do this to me? I’m not even a...a real enforcer, am I?”

“You were,” Bluestreak said softly, wrapping his arms around Prowl.

“This will be easier once Perceptor performs his surgery. Let’s focus on that,” Ratchet said, gesturing to the datapad he’d been holding. “I don’t want Prowl deadlining himself again somehow.”

“Right. I’m gonna count on you two to keep a close watch on ‘im. I’ve got an important bit of investigatin’ to do. You comm me when you’re done, yeah?” Jazz gave the three of them a two fingered salute, Ratchet nodded and waved him off as he helped Prowl back to his slab. 

“Keep us up to date too, Jazz. I wanna know what you find,” Bluestreak said, then turned to glare at Jazz with burning white optics. “I want to know who did this. And I’m going to personally snuff their spark.” 

 

Prowl’s habsuite was locked, but it wasn’t anything Jazz couldn’t slip by -- it wasn’t somewhere sensitive information was meant to be kept, and like with the decepticon research facility it was assumed infiltrators who made it past the first line of defense would make it past the rest. Jazz couldn’t fault Red Alert or Prowl himself for the flaw in the security -- the perimeter of Iacon was already almost too massive to keep locked down with the resources they had, it was the only practical solution. Besides, everything about the base here was temporary at this point -- the more resources were being poured into the Ark, the less there was for Iacon. 

But Prowl’s lock didn’t show any signs of being forced open beyond Jazz’s attempt -- though, Jazz assumed, the perpetrator would have had plenty of time to cover up their tracks. Jazz prayed they’d gotten sloppy somewhere. 

The door slid open with a hiss, and Jazz stepped in, letting it slide back shut behind him. He flicked on the light. 

Utilitarian, Jazz decided, was the best word to describe Prowl’s quarters. Like Ratchet and most of the base at this point, whatever was important to Prowl was probably something he now carried on him -- or in Prowl’s case,  _ had _ carried on him, the decepticons likely took whatever was in his subspace. Also like Ratchet, everything stored here was ready to be picked up and moved at a moment’s notice. Unlike Ratchet, this did not include a small surplus of medical equipment, rather there was almost nothing at all -- a case with a rifle and some datapads and dataslugs, a few personal hygiene items like wax and oil that were a little above military standard, humble creature comforts. Jazz briefly accessed a dataslug, the filename was simply RECREATIONAL 07. Works of fiction and history and classical music, Prowl’s personal attempt to preserve the bits of Cybertron that had been important to him. 

Jazz replaced the dataslug and looked around. The case with the rifle rested beside a desk with a secured terminal, Jazz knew the encryptions on that were as strong as any on the base -- and it hadn’t been the infiltrator’s goal, anyways, so he ignored it. The recharge slab was beside the desk, and that was about all the room consisted of. A place to sleep and to work. It wasn’t big enough for a fight to happen in without somebody hitting a wall or two. 

Jazz turned and stood in front of the door, as if he was answering it for someone he knew. He imagined the door opening -- it’s someone he knows, but there’s no space in the quarters to casually entertain guests, so Prowl doesn’t invite them in, but in Praxus it’s rude to speak across a threshold. Prowl would move to step out of the door, but Jazz doesn’t want to let him -- he’s here to kidnap Prowl and there are cameras and recording devices littering the halls, even if he’s sure no one is coming -- he probably has someone keeping watch. Attention deflectors take care of these cameras, but not the sound bugs. If Jazz knows that, he wants to take down Prowl quickly, and quietly, and in his quarters. He needs to push his way in, he puts his hands on Prowl’s shoulders and gently but firmly steers him backwards into the room. 

Does Prowl step back, is he accomodating of the gesture? Prowl must know Jazz, but he doesn’t know him well. Jazz paused and took a few steps backwards, trying to imagine Prowl’s reaction. Prowl was not one to shove, or at least, Jazz didn’t think so. If he didn’t think he was in danger he’d let himself be walked, but he wouldn’t be startled, either -- so walked, but not far enough back to bump into the desk. They’re in the middle of the room, then. Jazz stretched out his arms -- one hand brushed the wall, the other was a handful of meters from the recharge slab. 

“Primus this is a tiny room,” Jazz muttered to himself. 

How does Jazz knock out an enforcer without anybody hearing it? There can’t be much of a struggle. An EMP to the base of his skull would do it, but this close, how does Jazz get his arms around Prowl’s neck holding the tool? Even if he was a medic with Ratchet’s talented fingers, he would need to embrace Prowl for next to a minute to knock him out that way, and Jazz can’t imagine Prowl allowing that kind of embrace to last that long -- not to mention he would realize exactly what was happening. Jazz has a similar EMP in his own hands, but even his would still take more than half a minute of sustain contact to render a fully-functioning Prowl offline. No, Jazz’s method has to be instant, or next to instant, or very well hidden. It’s not drugged energon -- there’s nowhere to sit in Prowl’s quarters, nowhere to toast -- and Prowl doesn’t drink engex, and why share rations outside the mess? Besides, in this scenario, Jazz isn’t someone Prowl knows well enough to toast with. It can’t be blunt force trauma -- the sound might be written off by security, but Jazz wants Prowl’s processor in tact, any blow hard enough to knock him out is hard enough to maybe damage something, and Ratchet would have seen something like that with all the processor scans he’d been doing. It has to be an EMP. 

“But who says it has to be coming from the person pushing him into the room?” Mirage asked, materializing beside the closed door.

“You come to the same conclusion I did? Pushed in here by someone he knew, hit with an EMP, yeah?” 

“Fast, quiet, and efficient,” Mirage replied. “And safe for his precious processor, which is what I’m after.” 

“Exactly. You think the door was still open, he was hit by someone out in the hall?” Jazz asked. 

“That seems sloppy too, though, don’t you think? Long range EMPs tend to be finicky and cause other electrical distortions, they could have easily shorted their friend or their own attention deflectors,” Mirage replied. “Unless they were cloaked like me and already in the room, but then, why not simply knock him out while he’s recharging? It’s much easier.” 

“Mm. And if the person who hit him was already in the room, how’d Prowl not notice them? Those door wings ain’t just for show, and there’s nothin’ busy about this space. He’s gotta be familiar enough with it to spot air displacement.”

“So it is the mech in the room, the one with hands on Prowl. Perhaps those aren’t his only hands,” Mirage suggested, stepping around and examining the wall Jazz’s hand was touching. “Or maybe the EMP is built into his wrist somehow.” 

“So we’re lookin’ for somebody with a spare appendage or a wrist mounted weapon, you think, and somebody Prowl knew relatively well enough to let into his room,” Jazz crossed his arms, tapping his chin thoughtfully. 

“That’s useless, it hardly narrows things down.. And there wasn’t a fight, which means there’s no paint transfers, no dents.” 

“Did you pull Red’s footage?” 

“Yes, but the deflectors botched it -- Red is going to be much bothered  when he notices. I did get you the audio, but it’s also distorted by a high-frequency noisemaker. Prowl wouldn’t have been able to hear it unless he was trying to, but it’s all the recordings seem to have picked up. You might hear more than I did,” Mirage said, holding Jazz a dataslug. Jazz plucked it from Mirage’s fingers and inserted it in a port in his wrist for playback. 

Jazz listened. The audio crackled around in his head softly, like tinsel, a fuzzy film of soft white snow. With concentration, he could pick out Prowl’s voice, it reverberated on a lower spectrum of sound somewhere behind the storm, but it was still too hazy for Jazz to make out the words. And there was another voice, too, but it was higher and harder to distinguish from the static. Jazz didn’t think he’d be able to pick out its words from the distortions, so he focused on Prowl’s voice, offlining his optics. 

_ What...it? Ly….wait for the….m...ing….row?  _

Jazz let the room around him fade away, until there was nothing but the soft static and Prowl’s voice whispering into his audials. 

_ This is...inaprop...we cannot...cus….ation here. What are you - _

And then Prowl’s voice was gone, there was the sound of footsteps, and nothing else. 

“It was somebody Prowl was going to have a meeting with the next day, sounds like. Entered on the pretense of having intel, but Prowl didn’t want to talk about it here. Not secure enough, I imagine.” 

“A meeting with? Prowl tends to meet with important people, Jazz,” Mirage said.

“Yeah. We’re treadin’ on thin ice, but I know how you like to dance, Mirage,” Jazz teased, standing himself up onto the tips of his toes. 

“Stop it. This isn’t funny,” Mirage said flatly, arms crossed. “No wonder Bluestreak’s so cross with you.” 

“What? How’d you hear that?” 

“Hound mentioned it. He’d noticed, and said Trailbreaker had as well. Bluestreak drove off and could have just as easily wound up dead at Starscream’s hands as made it back to Iacon because he was so worried about Prowl. If he’d had a little more confidence you’d had his brother’s best interests at heart, he might not have run off on you like that.” 

“Blue’s out of his mind, Mirage, it’s not just the Prowl thing -- it’s all gotten into his head,” Jazz said, tapping his helm. 

“Even more reason to at least pretend you’re taking this seriously in front of him. He’s feeling like his whole world is falling apart -- which it literally is -- and you act like it’s one big joke. It’s not classy, Jazz.” Mirage keyed the door back open and cloaked again as he stepped out. Jazz exvented and put his hands behind his head as the door snapped back shut on him. 


	13. 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry everyone! I've been so dang busy I've hardly had any time to work on this, haha. Here's a small chapter about Perceptor, Perceiving. I'll admit I didn't give this one a terribly thorough check-over so there might be some errors.

Perceptor was late to the meeting, but that wasn’t unusual. Actually it was fairly usual. In fact it was so usual that usually the meetings were held in Perceptor’s workroom, since he was usually far too busy to waste time attending such meetings as the one which he would now be attending. Everyone generally accepted this, and so Perceptor was allowed whatever leeway he liked. 

This was good and bad, it turned out -- nobody minded him being late, but his absence from his workroom had been rather conspicuous. Work on the Ark was top priority and Perceptor was the project lead in that regard, so stepping away to help Ratchet had really painted a spotlight on him. He supposed that this was the reason the meeting wasn’t being held in his workroom, they wanted to chastise him for taking a little time to work on a different project. 

Truthfully, it’d been a bit of a blessing not to be constantly dwelling on the engine specs. They weren’t going to be as good as they could be, and the constant adjustments and compromises based on what materials and fuel were available to the designs -- while they were already under construction -- was becoming unbearable. Getting to look at a brain scan had been a welcome mental holiday. 

Perceptor entered the war room with an armful of datapads he was still in the middle of catching up on reading. Optimus stood at the head of the table, looking fairly drowned with worry. It hadn’t been long since Zeta’s death, and the newly minted Prime was floundering without an experienced and coherent inner circle, caught as he was between bickering remnants of the council. 

“Perceptor,” said one such councillor icily. Proteus had his arms crossed and looked like he was more in command of the meeting than usual. Perceptor nodded his head at the councilmember and glanced around -- ah, Crosscut and Decimus were bickering, and Optimus was staring intensely at the warmap. Proteus, who despite having the personality of a slimey doorknob, had the best paint job, was also best at not falling into the trap of bickering with Decimus. However, Optimus didn’t even like to look at Proteus, and pretended to be heavily involved in literally anything else when left alone in a room with him. Crosscut probably bickered with Decimus for about the same reason, and Decimus really didn’t have any reason to be there except that, traditionally, he had been. 

Other than the Prime and three senators, Perceptor was always at these meetings, and sometimes Ratchet, and formerly occasionally Prowl to provide reports. Prowl was sorely missed at meetings. This was because, like Proteus, Prowl also had the personality of a doorknob -- though not a slimey one -- and was more or less utterly oblivious to any kind of social tact. He would happily cut off anyone who was talking if he decided the content wasn’t relevant, which mostly shut up Decimus, and would respond with complete candid sincerity to any of Proteus’s jabs about Optimus’s tactics and any of Crosscut’s equally sincere questions. As a result the meetings were over quickly and with the minimum amount of pain. 

In his absence, Ironhide tried to serve the same function, and sometimes succeeded. Unfortunately, unlike Prowl, Ironhide knew when he was being insulted even when it wasn’t extremely, glaringly obvious, and often he’d just get angry and threaten to cram Proteus’s head into his fuel tanks. Ratchet did a better job by just increasing his volume any time anyone tried to interrupt his reports and belligerently talking over them, but couldn’t escape the medbay much these days. Jetfire didn’t come to meetings personally anymore, he might comm in, but he avoided them as much as possible in lieu of just delivering written reports and arguing he was too busy being one of the handful of fliers they had left to attend meetings. 

“Perceptor, have you caught up on your reading, yet?” Proteus asked, crossing his arms. Perceptor raised a finger to hush him while he finished going over the reports. Highbrow was good at meetings, Perceptor liked when he came, they always had such good conversations about the navigation systems. Blurr was banned from the war room by everyone, unanimously. 

“Alright, sorry, sorry, what’s the meeting on today? I’ve really got a lot of work to catch up on,” Perceptor said, lowering the datapad he’d been reading. 

“About that, what were you doing with Ratchet?” Proteus asked. 

“Ah, well, he’s had patients with head injuries and wanted me to run over some general coding patches with him! He also had said that he thought I could use the break, so there was that, too, and you know, I really am feeling that much better and ready to get right back to the engine problem now! I’ve thought of at least twelve new optimizations that I think could increase our fuel efficiency by six percent or so….” 

“That’s wonderful, Perceptor, why don’t you get right on that,” Optimus cut in without looking up. Optimus hated hearing about the engines more than he hated anything else in the entire universe, Perceptor figured. It was the easiest way to get out of a meeting, and Perceptor very much wanted out of this meeting.

“Head injuries?” Decimus interjected before Perceptor could turn on foot to leave. 

“Er, yes, you’re aware that sometimes our men do get shot in the head, and sometimes they survive these injuries, though they often suffer a bit of processor damage, and while Ratchet’s quite adept at resolving physical issues he occasionally encounters stray coding errors as a result and needs to fix those,” Perceptor said, “and while he’s got some basic patches and training as a medic, he’s quite far from a mnemnosurgeon or cerebral specialist, and so seeing as he’d really rather not bother me every time, I thought I’d give him some extra guidance….” he continued, trying to be obtuse. The ratio of words Perceptor spoke to time before Optimus kicked him out was inverse. 

“Ah, yes, of course,” Decimus nodded wisely, but Perceptor was sure he was hardly listening. Decimus had been more into business than politics, and Perceptor doubted he had much interest in the health of the soldiers, or in the war in general, honestly, unless there was money to be made.

“Good way to think ahead, Perceptor,” Crosscut nodded, “we should really be training another few cerebral specialists, or look into recalling Cerebros…” 

“Oh, absolutely! Cerebros would be a great help on the base,” 

“I’ll look into it, then!” Crosscut beamed. Crosscut was more of a diplomat than a strategist, and was mostly out of his depth at war meetings -- he really had to work it around in his processor to make himself come up with ideas that were directly about hurting people instead of just sort’ve neutralizing them or talking them down. Indeed, Crosscut had a spark of gold, but unfortunately, it made him fairly useless in his current position. He was always pleased as punch when he got to work on anything that didn’t involve killing someone. 

“That will be excellent. Well, do you require me for anything else? Ah, yes, the report, we’re coming along just about the same rate we were last time regarding the engines, the change in the Praxian campaign has improved our resource acquisition predictions by about eight percent, conservatively speaking, optimistically we can perhaps estimate a fifteen percent increase! That would be quite something, don’t you think?” Perceptor beamed cheerily at the senators, Optimus nodded while staring down at the table with the intensity of someone who desperately wanted to become the table. 

“Yes, that’s good, Perceptor, please get back to work right away,” Optimus said without looking up. 

“Of course, Optimus, right away,” Perceptor repeated. 

“Right away,” Optimus nodded. 

Perceptor gave a brief salute and turned on his heel before anybody else could interrupt and stop him. 


	14. 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S BEEN like a month! I'm sorry, I've just been very busy, and on top of that someone also stole my credit card, what times we live in (it's sorted but dang was that stressful). It still might be a bit of a delay between chapters, but I'll try not to be a whole month this time, thanks for bearing with me!

Prowl sat and stared at his hands. Bluestreak was sitting next to him and was being uncharacteristically silent, but it was hard to stay focused on that. Repeatedly, Prowl thought he ought to bring up the silence to his brother, but repeatedly forgot about it before he could think of what to say. Each time he recalled he remembered the forgetting, increasing his frustration and disconnection from the situation at hand. 

Ratchet was also in the room in the process of finishing the construction of a medical apparatus he explained he and Perceptor would be using to conduct a comprehensive repair of Prowl’s processor. Also in the room was Jazz, who was arguing that he should also be involved in the dive into Prowl’s processor, an argument Ratchet didn’t like, but was steadily losing ground to. His strongest argument was that Jazz was not a medical professional and had no reason to be violating Prowl’s privacy. Jazz’s counter was he’d already done it before, and would also be the most ready to deal with any viruses or other surprises the deep-dive might dig up. Ratchet resented the implication that he was inexperienced with viruses and trojans -- he was the Chief Medical Officer, after all. But it was true too apparently that Jazz, out of any Autobots they could trust on base, would be able to identify the handiwork of specific decepticons. 

Prowl, when he could focus enough to have an opinion, agreed that tactically, it would be good for Jazz to observe, though not to affect code -- based on context clues from Ratchet, Jazz was good at destroying minds, not repairing them. Personally he couldn’t condone it. He didn’t know what he’d forgotten, and he didn’t like the idea of anyone who wouldn’t respect doctor-patient confidentiality digging through his memory files. 

Prowl’s hands felt wrong. Maybe they weren’t his hands? His body didn’t fit right, like someone had jabbed a needle into him and filled the space under his plating with air, lifting it just enough that it barely made contact. He scratched at his wrist absently, the cheap paint peeled away, revealing silver underneath. Not silver paint, he realized, just silver, his own metal. What had happened to the paint that had been there? He scraped the paint away with his fingers with steadily increasing vigor, numb to the discomfort it caused. These were not his hands, so it didn’t matter if it hurt, the pain didn’t belong to him. 

“Prowl,” Bluestreak put his hand over Prowl’s, “what are you doing?” 

Prowl stared at his brother, suddenly remembering. 

“You’ve been very quiet,” he said. 

“I -- yeah. But why are you scraping your paint off?” 

“It’s not my paint,” Prowl replied matter-of-factly, going back to scraping it away. 

“It’s on you, it’s your paint? I mean, it’s -- the stuff Jazz put on you to hide you, but it is your paint.” Bluestreak tried to stop his hand. 

“It’s not on me,” Prowl replied calmly. “These aren’t my hands.” 

“Prowl, you know that doesn’t make any sense. Tell me you know it doesn’t make any sense,” Bluestreak said, gripping Prowl’s hand between both of his. Prowl looked at him quizzically, then looked back at the hands. 

“They’re...not my hands, because they don’t feel like my hands, so they…” 

“But you’re moving them, right? You can feel them and stuff? You can feel me holding your hand?” 

“Yes, but --” 

“Then they’re your hands, Prowl!” Bluestreak said with a hiss of desperation. Prowl felt tightness, a thick, hard rock somewhere between his spark and his spine that shifted. He hadn't known it was there before, suddenly remembering it only made bits of it crumble and fall down into his hips and thighs, he could feel the stones rattling around. He didn't want to this about it and tried to focus on Bluestreak.

“I guess that makes sense,” Prowl murmured, pressing his free maybe-his-maybe-not hand to his mouth. “But if they’re my hands then...what happened to the paint? Who scraped off all the paint?” 

“You did!” 

“No, I mean before that...I had white paint, but it’s just silver underneath.” 

“Oh.” Bluestreak was silent for a long second, Prowl shook his head. 

“You’re wrong. It doesn’t make any sense, but you’re wrong, I  _ know _ these aren’t my hands." The stone or maybe it was static that was rattling around his waist was less disconcerting if it was happening to someone else, so Prowl decided to live in that reality. "This isn't my body at all." 

 

Perceptor flexed his servos as he jogged down the hall towards Ratchet’s habsuite. He exhaled and slowed down once he reached his final corridor, shaking out his hands a bit. Unlike Ratchet, Perceptor’s hands really had nothing to do with his skill as a medic, but he had adopted the habit of testing the servos after watching both Ratchet and Wheeljack do it so many times before a tricky operation or feat of finicky engineering. 

Prowl’s scans were a mess, but Perceptor could already piece together what had happened. Prowl had deleted his own memories -- that much was obvious. As a result, there was some method to the madness, what was missing made sense at first -- file systems that were complex but easily replaced, like taste and colour references. Prowl had tried to prepare for being made into the processing unit for a supercomputer that he knew would try to take over every bit and byte. 

But he hadn’t been able to prepare well enough, and repeated sessions and trauma had caused him try to desperately shift things around more and more to save the memories he deemed most important. At some point, Perceptor guessed, Prowl decided escaping without assistance was impossible, and started deleting files essential to his own function -- but not essential to his  _ person _ . This included the repair data, motor function, etc. In his desperation to protect his essential files, he’d hid them so well he’d even blocked off his own access. In addition to the heat damage, the confusion this must have created could account for most of the other coding damage. But not all of it. Perceptor didn’t like to think about it, but he could guess based on what Ratchet told him about Prowl’s other injuries. 

He stepped into Ratchet’s hab suite with a certain feeling of unease, as a result. Perceptor wasn’t a stranger to the whole war at this point, but he did acutely understand that his status as a valuable engineer spared him a considerable amount of carnage. Prowl might not have been frontline, but he'd seen combat, and was responsible for reading all the reports and reviewing all the data and footage, on top of his time behind enemy lines, now. Perceptor didn’t like the idea of stumbling into one of Prowl’s nightmares. 

“Perceptor, check this over?” Ratchet said. Perceptor hurried over to the surgical suite. 

“Percy, buddy, pal, talk some sense into Ratchet for me,” Jazz said. 

“About what?” Perceptor asked as he looked over the proxy -- it was safer to use a proxy hard drive when doing a deep dive, to create a buffer between you and any corrupt code or viruses. 

“I need to be in there with you. If there’s any evidence you have to delete on the fly, I need to see it before you do,” Jazz said. “Such as a virus or a bad string of code.” 

“I suppose that makes sense,” Perceptor said agreeably. He looked over at Ratchet, who was scowling, and sensed this was not the correct answer. “But you should ask Prowl if it’s alright, don’t you think?” He quickly deflected. Some of the scorn vanished from Ratchet’s face. 

“You think Prowl’s in his right mind to make a decision like that?” Jazz asked. Perceptor glanced over at Prowl, who was trying to scratch the paint off his hands and arguing with Bluestreak, who was trying to stop him. 

“Er. Well, then the decision should fall to his medical care provider, or his closest kin?” Perceptor ventured. Jazz’s face was ponderous, he looked over at Bluestreak, who was now holding Prowl’s hands to restrain him and carefully and calmly trying to explain to Prowl why he should stop scratching the paint off. Prowl seemed distressed and a little chastised. 

“I guess Mirage wants me to apologize, anyways,” Jazz said before turning towards the two Praxians. Perceptor once again sensed he’d done something wrong, and turned to Ratchet for confirmation. Ratchet’s expression of distressed exasperation proved that he had, indeed, once more committed a faux pas. 

“Sorry, Ratchet,” he murmured. “The suite looks good,” he added. 

“It’s alright, Perceptor. But I am going to have you go over the ethics standards again.” 


	15. 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy here's a quick update! As ever I remained drowned in other work but I had a nice little chunk of time to work last night so I took it. :o Thanks for your patience!

Getting Bluestreak to go out into the hall with him to talk had been impossible, since Bluestreak would not leave Prowl, and Prowl could not leave Ratchet’s habsuite uncloaked. It was fortunate, then, that Perceptor and Ratchet determined they needed a few extra power cells to make sure the surgery wasn’t interrupted by a blackout, and had left to get them, though Ratchet had given Jazz a pointed scowl that somehow exactly conveyed the type of wrench he would hit Jazz with and the exact spot on his helm the blow would impact should he do anything to upset Bluestreak, or Prowl, for that matter. Perceptor gave him a look that sort of conveyed having accidentally ingested congealed energon. 

Bluestreak was talking to Prowl -- mostly about nothing -- and Prowl seemed to be going in and out in terms of comprehending anything that was being said to him. This seemed to be causing Prowl some stress, the tactician’s frown ranged from one of dedicated focus to one of helpless confusion. Bluestreak seemed to be aware of this and was doing his best to accommodate Prowl, but his own anxiety was making it difficult. 

“Hey, Blue, can we talk for a second?” Jazz asked. Bluestreak looked over at him and grimaced. 

“Sure, what do you want?” he asked curtly. 

“Aw, hey. Listen, I wanna say I’m sorry,” Jazz began. “I know this’s been bad for you, and I know I ain’t really been...yanno, respectful of that. I just try to keep things feeling normal. Make people feel comfortable. It’s not because I -- want to downplay your feelings. But I have been, and I’m sorry,” Jazz said, rubbing his helm sheepishly. Bluestreak stared at him for a second, but then his glare hardened. 

“You’re only apologizing because you want me to say you can sit in on on the deep-dive,” Bluestreak said, balling his hands into fists as his doorwings shot up in a steep V. This alarmed Prowl, who started sweeping the room for threats, but seemed to become only more alarmed when he didn’t find any. 

“Hey, easy, easy,” Jazz said, holding his hands up and waving at Prowl a bit to try to attract his attention. Bluestreak remained fixated on Jazz.

“EASY? You -- you -- come over here and -- and -- you already went violated his privacy when you went from observer to diver  _ last time _ when Ratchet asked you to watch for viruses and -- now you’re asking to deep dive -- to  _ read his memories _ like a -- like a mnemnosurgeon -- and you’re not even one! You’re a hacker and a saboteur and you don’t know how to do that without -- without wrecking everything!” Bluestreak stammered out. Jazz winced. 

“I know you hate this, but that’s exactly why I should go. Ratchet’s too worried he’ll let his inexperience in code show and Perceptor doesn’t know the situation or the patient well enough to make quick calls. I promise not to rewrite anything! I won’t touch anything,” Jazz said. 

“You just wanna know who the mole is -- you just wanna use him for your  _ case _ ,” Bluestreak snapped. 

“Don’t you wanna know who did this to your brother? I don’t understand why you’re mad at  _ me _ and not  _ him _ !” Jazz finally let his voice rise. “Don’t you care? Don’t you care that someone betrayed Prowl -- all of us -- like this? Could do it again?” Bluestreak finally seemed to wilt somewhat. 

“No,” he finally muttered. “I  _ don’t _ .” Bluestreak looked over at Prowl, who was watching the argument in agonized confusion. Jazz could see that he knew that he was somehow missing pieces of the event happening directly in front of him and couldn’t figure out how to stop it from happening. 

“Blue…” 

“I don’t care, I just don’t feel it anymore,” Bluestreak said. “I don’t care if we win or lose or die or -- or -- anything. I don’t know why, I just -- I don’t feel anything about it. I’m just scared all the time and when I -- I watched Praxus  _ melt _ . My friends. Our home just -- gone. It’s just not there. I don’t even -- know where exactly it is, anymore. I couldn’t even find the spot. You’d think there would be  _ marks.  _ I found people I knew melted together or --  fused with the ground or -- people without guns or autobrands or anything. All my squadmates were picked off one by one and it was just me and they just --  _ hunted _ me  and left me alive and I don’t know why,” Bluestreak put his face in his hands. Prowl reached out and touched him hesitantly, and Jazz grimaced. 

“I don’t understand. Don’t you want revenge?” Jazz gingerly put a hand on Bluestreak’s shoulder. 

“Why, so I can melt someone else’s family into their home, so they can’t even -- tell what parts are people and what parts are furniture? So I can -- kill all their friends and make them wander around without recharging for  _ weeks _ thinking they’re gonna die at any second or -- or worse? I don’t want to be that, Jazz. I don’t want to be that. There’s no point in winning if we have to be that.” 

“Blue, I’m sorry,” Jazz gripped his shoulder. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. I can’t give up yet though. Let me do this. I can help Prowl, and I can catch the person that did this and stop it from happening again. Let me help. I need to help.” 

“Don’t make it worse,” Bluestreak murmured through his hands, static lacing his voice. “Just promise you won’t make it worse,” 

“Bluestreak, I’d never hurt your brother on purpose. You gotta know that, right?”   
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything. But fine. Just -- fine.” Bluestreak pushed Jazz’s hand gently off his shoulder, and Prowl’s quickly replaced it as the other mech reached over for his brother, concerned. 

 

“Bluestreak, I don’t know what’s wrong,” Prowl said. “I know -- something’s wrong. I can’t -- do you need something?” he asked, uncertainly glancing at Jazz. The two had been arguing and Prowl couldn’t follow much of the conversation, things were getting increasingly difficult to comprehend, there were too many threads and for some reason he couldn’t track more than one at a time. He desperately tried to recap. He had been hurt. He had some kind of brain trauma. He was going to undergo surgery for this and -- they were hiding. Why were they hiding? He shuttered his optics. There was a war? The pieces slipped through his fingers, he felt like he was trying to separate oil from water. 

“Bluestreak,” Prowl muttered again, gripping his brother’s arm. Bluestreak had been arguing with Jazz and he was upset. Prowl was at a loss, usually Bluestreak talked to him to work through whatever was bothering him, but Prowl couldn’t follow the conversation. He was helpless and, critically, useless. 

“It’s okay, Prowl, I’m okay,” Bluestreak said quietly through his hands. 

“You’re lying,” Prowl snapped. “I’m not stupid! I’m not -- stupid,” Prowl put a hand to his head and looked around the room -- Jazz had disappeared and Prowl quickly started to forget he’d ever been there. He ground his teeth.

“I know, I’m sorry, you’re not stupid, Prowl,” Bluestreak mumbled as helplessly as Prowl felt. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” 

“I’m -- no, Bluestreak, I’m sorry, I want to help,” Prowl said. “I just can’t think through it. Why can’t I think?” 

“Ratchet and Perceptor will fix it soon. I’ll be okay until then,” Bluestreak leaned against Prowl’s shoulder and Prowl wrapped an arm around him, still feeling useless. Something about the contact felt wrong, puzzle pieces that didn’t fit anymore, but Prowl tried to ignore it. He could put up with anything for his brother. 

“Yes, I’ll figure it out then,” Prowl said quietly, trying to pin down that concept, something to grip until he could find other points of traction.  

 

Ratchet stopped fast enough that Perceptor bumped into him. He couldn’t see much passed the box he was carrying, but he could hear the footsteps coming down the hallway. The hallway with his habsuite. He peered around the side of the box. 

“Oh! There you are!” Brainstorm threw his hands out. “The other engineers said you were working on a project with Ratchet and Wheeljack said you were using Ratchet’s habsuite so I was on my way over!” 

“Oh, Brainstorm,” Perceptor said, leaning out from around Ratchet. “Do you need something?” 

“I just need to go over the new numbers on the circuit layout for the guns, you know, to make sure we don’t blow all the breakers if we try and fire more than one gun at once,” Brainstorm said. “But what are you working on?” 

“I’m helping Ratchet with a -- a mock cerebral surgery,” Perceptor replied. 

“It’s not my area of expertise. I’m trying to cover my bases,” Ratchet added. 

“Oh! Neat! Can I watch?”

“No.” Ratchet barked. 

“No!” Perceptor yelped. 

“What? Why not?” Brainstorm asked, seeming confused. 

“We can’t have every primus-damned engineer on the ship stopping work to come learn how to do cerebral surgery,” Ratchet snapped angrily before Perceptor could reply. “It’s bad enough the chief medical officer and the head of engineering are tied down while I play catch up.” 

“Y-yes, what he said,” Perceptor mumbled, staring at the floor. 

“Why do you have that big power-cell?” Brainstorm asked suddenly. “For the surgery?” 

“No,” Ratchet began, 

“Yes!” Perceptor squeaked. There was a pause, then Perceptor cleared his vocalizer and continued, “I-it’s in case there’s a -- an unexpected power fluctuation -- we don’t want to have to reschedule it would be very bad,” Perceptor finished, glancing at Ratchet, who rolled his optics. 

“You know how the crew quarters are lowest priority for power. If something happens on the defense grid, it’s lights out over here. We just want to wrap this up  _ uninterrupted _ ,” Ratchet glared meaningfully over the power cell at Brainstorm. 

“Ah,” Brainstorm nodded, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I understand. Well sorry I can’t help! Maybe once we get the bucket into space we’ll have some time to all brush up on our brain-medicine skills. You know, because knowing is half the battle,” Brainstorm tapped a thoughtful servo to his forehead before handing Perceptor a datapad. “When you’re done, look these over and get back to me?” He winked.

“Yes, of course, thank you Brainstorm,” Perceptor said, taking the datapad. Ratchet had already started down the hallway. 

“No problem! Have fun, kiddos!” Brainstorm said, thumbing his nose at them as he walked backwards around the corner and disappeared. Ratchet ex-vented and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“I can’t wait for this to be over,” he said. 

“Mm,” Perceptor agreed. 

 


	16. 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update is short again -- the next bit is written, but going slowly because I want to practice my purple prose and revise it. I considered cutting a lot of this bit of update because it's pretty exposition heavy, but I also thought it would be fun to see what the headspace is like from a more technical perspective, so I decided to include it in the end. It's a little rough, but I hope you enjoy!

Bluestreak tried not to fret while Perceptor and Ratchet started to prepare Prowl for the procedure. At this point, his brother was still conscious, and not strapped in -- Ratchet was explaining the procedure to him once again. Bluestreak sat beside Prowl, who was becoming increasingly distraught. 

“Do you need me to go over it again?” Ratchet asked carefully. This was the third time. Prowl looked helpless. 

“I understand when you say it, but I cannot hold it in my mind,” Prowl said, exasperated. “I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t think you telling me again is going to help.” 

“How about this,” Jazz intervened, coming over and kneeling in front of Prowl, “do you trust us?” Bluestreak gave Jazz a weary look, but Jazz ignored him, optics fixed on Prowl’s face. 

“I...yes?” Prowl offered. 

“Alright. That’s what you need to hold on to. You think you can do that?” Jazz asked. 

“I...guess,” Prowl replied. 

“Try it with a little more commitment.” 

“Yes?” Prowl looked at Bluestreak. “Yes.” 

“Okay. That’s all you need,” Jazz smiled. Ratchet quirked an optic. 

“Yeah? That’s it, huh?” he scoffed, but turned back to Prowl. “Alright. I know you’re not retaining this, and it’s causing you some distress. What I’m going to do is slowly ease you down into a more restful state before we put you under for the dive,” Ratchet explained. Prowl continued to look somewhat helpless as Ratchet spoke, and Ratchet gently took his hands, massaging circles over his palms, pulsing blossoms of soft static into his circuits. 

“You’re safe, and no one is going to hurt you,” Ratchet said, towing the line between soft and firm, comforting and confident. He started working his way up to Prowl’s wrists and his forearms, dulling his sensor net piece by piece. 

“You’re safe, and no one is going to hurt you,” he repeated.

“I’m going to be here the whole time,” Bluestreak added as Ratchet reached Prowl’s shoulders, gently tapping down to his chassis, across the hood and up to his chin, repeating the mantra. 

“You’re safe, and no one is going to hurt you,” Ratchet said again as he took Prowl’s face in his hands. Bluestreak looked over at Prowl, smiling. Prowl seemed calmer, but his face was twisted into an expression of grief, or maybe shame. 

Wrapping up, Ratchet tilted Prowl into Bluestreak’s arms to make sure he didn’t slump over, then stood. He walked over to where Perceptor was in the process of configuring the software of a large and menacing looking apparatus -- designed like a vice to hold a patient’s head in place. Ratchet grimaced and briefly entertained a memory of the days when he would’ve had access to a full armamentarium instead of cannibalized parts. Perceptor, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind. 

“Proxy’s set up, there’s plenty of anti-virals and barriers if we run into a virus or some malignant code,” Perceptor explained. “And we’ve got our spare power cells lined up with multiple failsafes. Everything should be good to go!” he added cheerily. Ratchet sighed. 

“Perceptor,” he began, “I appreciate your attitude. It’s good to hear. Are you ready to do a deep dive? Emotionally, not theoretically.” 

“Er -- I suppose I don’t have much of a choice in the matter, do I?” Perceptor rubbed his hands together nervously. “I understand the theory and practice of repairing code a bit better than you do, due to my expertise mostly revolving around micro-circuitry and software…however, I’m still not a mnemnosurgeon. I know what’s wrong and how to fix it, but, er, the devil’s in the details, as they say,” Perceptor fidgeted. “I’ve only done a handful of real surgeries like this myself, and always with a more experienced surgeon…”

“And never with a patient that’s suffered this kind of emotional trauma.” Ratchet finished. Perceptor nodded.

“All my instances were pre-war, and were memory recovery operations due to various accidental head injuries. I’m afraid I’m not well prepared if we accidentally engage a full scenario playback.” 

“Since we’re not data-mining, ideally, we’re not going to be triggering one. If we do, and it’s something bad, I want you to be ready to disengage,” Ratchet replied. Perceptor touched his helm sheepishly. 

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” 

“Jazz and I both have the training and experience to deal with whatever we’re exposed to. Traumatizing you isn’t going to help anyone.” 

“Prowl also had that training though, didn’t he?” Perceptor asked, concerned. Ratchet smiled wryly, then frowned again. 

“It’s -- different, living it, than just going through a replay,” Ratchet explained. 

“Oh? How so?” Perceptor asked, interest piqued despite himself. Ratchet flexed his servos for a second before answering. 

“You know the replay is going to end.” 

 

Jazz settled into the datastream, letting the numbers and processes wash over him as they diversified and branched out from the banal proxy server’s coding and into the fine-tuned ocean of a real mind. Firewalls engaged, Ratchet and Perceptor met him in a space that was somewhere Prowl-adjacent -- a safe ledge formed by the proxy above that deep, dark sphere that was the remnants of Prowl’s mind. 

Jazz looked at the shapes of Perceptor and Ratchet. Perceptor showed up in a way that was fairly literal, Jazz was surprised to see -- it was a posture common in mechs that utilized their physicality more than their processors. He would have thought someone like Perceptor, who worked mostly in a highly theoretical field, would be more abstract.

Ratchet on the other hand -- someone who did work mostly with his hands -- was less of a body and more of a sense. Jazz recognized immediately the thought and care that Ratchet put into his projection -- it was all about feeling large enough and encompassing enough to command confidence, but also to be devoid of threat, to be reassuring and calming. There were cracks in the veneer Jazz was sure he could find, but that wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing. 

“Well,” Perceptor said, looking down, or in, or maybe around, “this is going to be be a bit daunting. Shall we go over our process?” 

“Yes, let’s,” Ratchet replied. “But first -- do we see Prowl anywhere?” 

“You put him out hard, Ratchet. He’s probably back under the water,” Jazz explained. 

“Water? Oh, the -- yes, I understand,” Perceptor said. 

“That’s not ideal, but unless we want to go fishing, we probably just have to wait until he surfaces on his own. So our reconstruction path is fairly simple,” Ratchet began.

“Yes! We’re going to reconstruct as much of the past few months or so as possible -- all his time with the decepticons, mostly. Once that’s done, we  _ should _ be able to reconstruct Prowl’s process of partitions and deletions, and those files will fall into place on their own,” Perceptor piped in enthusiastically. 

“That’s going to get really ugly,” Jazz said, adopting a sense of crossing his arms. “Unless you want to review it all yourselves in replays, the only good way to do that would be to puppet Prowl into doing it himself.” 

“That’s -- sort of the plan, yes,” Perceptor adopted the concept of fidgeting very loudly. 

“Prowl is struggling to reconstruct this data himself because there are parts of it he is actively trying to ignore, that are missing, or that he can’t access through his own partitions. I am going to walk him through the data patches he’s avoiding, and Perceptor will be collating the data as Prowl highlights the file paths while he tries to remember, since Perceptor can access his partitions easily from here.” Ratchet added. 

“And I’m only here to tackle any viruses that show up,” Jazz added.

“You’re here only to observe,” Ratchet snapped, and Jazz became acutely aware of the weight Ratchet had, and the way he could envelop him and smother him. Jazz tried to hide his surprise -- he hadn’t expected Ratchet could turn his presence into something so heavy. 

“Right,” Jazz replied, trying to project acquiescence. Perceptor simulated coughing. 

“Let’s start, then.” 


	17. 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still very slowly working away at this, I've been very busy, and this has been a tough segment to write! It's a lot easier to write comedy, which is why I somehow wrote an entire other romcom fic in less than a week while working on this. Riperoni, haha. This section was definitely a nice hurdle to jump -- I really wanted to try to get it right, but in the end, I'm not sure if I succeeded. Let me know what you think! Thanks so much for your patience.
> 
> Edit: I was asked to add a non-con/rape warning to an earlier chapter, so I shall also add one here! I didn't mean to imply rape, just torture, but I can totally understand how it can be read that way. Be warned!

Prowl did not come together all at once. The shape of him felt so small, so exposed. He didn’t remember falling into the ocean, but he was at the bottom again, although this time there was the shadow of an island in which to hide. He held the pieces that didn’t quite fit, paint that wouldn’t cling, metal that hovered inches from his plating, moved with a sense of lag from his tiny hands. Had he ever been this small? 

Prowl dug through the sand with his fingers for the comfort of the sensation, the way the static clouds felt brushing against his digits. It alleviated the wrongness of his shape. His other hand pressed against his core, still exposed, still with servos that weren’t his own holding him together from the inside. He needed to hide the light that leaked out. If he lost even a drop, the monster hiding in the current would smell it and come for him. 

As a result, the light that suddenly began to pour into his ocean from somewhere above the surface nearly threw him into a panic. He flung static like a cloud and turned to press himself into the base of his island, trying to find a way up to avoid the inevitable frenzy. It was difficult to do while trying to hold himself inside the shell and keep the shell inside the false outline, coordinating the lagging limbs that clipped through the thoughtmass like they were sinking into tar. He made it halfway before two red hands gently took him by the forearms and pulled him ashore. 

Prowl felt dazed, like he had been rolled into a warm, thick blanket. The warmth felt like a shock, but only because the contrast suddenly reintroduced him to the concept of  _ cold _ and he realized he had been completely frozen. The lagging limbs faded until they were only thin outlines, his arms were bundled and paralyzed. He couldn’t bring himself to mind. He couldn’t bring himself to mind anything, his hand fell away and let the light leak out of his center, only held in by those insistent silver hands. He would dissolve in this warmth if it meant never facing cold again. 

“Prowl,” there was a voice that went along with this warmth, and the voice was good and warm, and familiar, too. The island below him was made of this name, it peeled off and letter by letter wrote itself in the space on his shoulder beside his cheek. He leaned his head into it as though he could pin it there. It felt comfortable, friendly, trustworthy, but left him with a nagging sense of vulnerability and fear. Should he really let it so close to his spark? 

“Ratchet,” he mumbled through the static. 

“Do you know why I’m here?” Ratchet’s voice was thick drops of sound that pearled up along his plating and streaked away like quiet stars. It made Prowl want to laugh, for some reason. There was irony in it, that Ratchet could care so much and sound so gentle when he could also be so bitter and angry. That was a piece of the island, too, it outlined the name and helped define it. 

“You’re here to find the missing space that connects the plating to the paint,” Prowl replied calmly. Some piece of him recognized that this wording didn’t quite make sense, but of course, it  _ did _ make sense. 

“Right,” Ratchet agreed, as if it did make total sense. “Are you ready to start?” 

“What do I have to do?” Prowl asked. He did not want to do anything, actually, but responsibility made the words reluctantly ooze out anyways. 

“Just take my hand and walk with me,” Ratchet said. 

“Okay,” Prowl replied. He felt the warmth ease up slightly until a hand materialized somewhere near him. He struggled to grasp it, unsure if he should use the thin, breaking outline and its hovering paint or the tiny hand hiding underneath. In the end the outline wouldn’t hold, so he used the smaller hand. He was afraid it would break, but in all the places he might crush, Ratchet’s hand simply gave way. 

They stood on the edge of the island and stared out. Prowl looked up -- Ratchet was massive, but not so large Prowl felt afraid of him. He was aware vaguely too that somewhere above them were two more, one hid in the shadows around the fringes of his mind waiting to bite and the other felt as lost as he was. 

“Who’s there?” Prowl asked hesitantly. 

“Perceptor and Jazz,” Ratchet replied. 

“I don’t know Perceptor,” Prowl said. “I know Jazz. He can help me,” he added. 

“Can he?” Ratchet asked. 

“I don’t know why I know that. It’s written here,” Prowl pointed to his chest, just above where the sparklight was leaking out. Suddenly remembering it, he smacked his hand over the hole, trying to hide the light. “I’m falling apart,” he said with equal parts shame and fear. 

“It’s not your fault. We’ll put you back together. Remember, you are safe. No one is going to hurt you,” Ratchet said, gently squeezing his hand, wrapping him back up in the warmth. “What’s the last thing you remember?” he asked. 

“Bluestreak,” Prowl replied immediately. “He was holding my hand.” 

“Where were you?” Ratchet asked as Bluestreak’s name formed a plinth in the ocean before them, foundation upon which Prowl would rebuild his mind. 

“A...place,” Prowl frowned. “It was...dim, and you were there,” he said. 

“My room,” Ratchet elaborated. 

“Yes, you’re doing surgery on me, now,” Prowl said, and the room began to take a vague shape before them, but it was unrendered, textureless and flat. Ratchet gently guided him there. 

“Where were you before this?” he asked. 

“The side of the road,” Prowl replied. “You were there,” he added again. 

“Yes,” Ratchet said, walking him gently to the newly forming island. 

“Bluestreak wasn’t,” Prowl added. “But he was before -- when it was raining. I was -- asleep, I was coming home from work?” Prowl said.

The island began to form, but half of it was like his arm, tacked on like a sticky note, incongruous with the dilapidated bus stop and the flashes of blue and pink that lit up the sky, the rumbling, the sound of rain. The outline of a city hovered above it, but it was translucent and wrong, strings of code stretching deep under the water and away to some distant continent that Prowl could not see on the horizon. 

“Praxus wasn’t here. Do you remember?” Ratchet asked gently. Prowl frowned. 

“Yes. We were somewhere else. Going to Iacon,” Prowl said. “I was missing a doorwing. I remember the hospital, and you were there, and Bluestreak was there, and so was Jazz,” Prowl said. “Jazz is here now,” he added, glancing over his shoulder and into the dark, where Jazz’s visor hovered alone. 

“He is and he was, you’re right,” Ratchet said. “Can you tell me about other times you met Jazz?” 

“He made me drink something,” Prowl said, frowning. “I didn’t like it. I was afraid,” Prowl said. The image of a crooked bar, a tube shoved down his intake. The ocean moved and Prowl jerked his hand out of Ratchet’s so he could wrap his arms around his core. 

The movement didn’t escape Ratchet’s notice, but he turned and kneeled beside Prowl, bringing himself down to his height and gently wrapping him back up in the warmth. 

“You are safe, and no one is going to hurt you,” Ratchet said. Prowl felt his body relax, somewhat against his better judgement. 

“I don’t want it to find me,” Prowl said. 

“We’ll face it together,” Ratchet replied. 

“No, we can’t. It must not find me,” Prowl insisted. “It will hollow me out so it can live in me.” 

“I won’t let that happen,” Ratchet said firmly. “Let’s talk more about Jazz. What else do you remember?” 

“His visor,” Prowl said. “He kept telling me to look at him. I didn’t recognize him,” Prowl added. A tunnel started to form and they stumbled into it. “I knew I was being carried, but I thought it was -- someone who was -- going to -- hurt me,” Prowl sputtered out. He put his free hand to his head to fend off a rising headache. Ratchet smoothed a hand over his, pulsing away the pain with floral blooms of electrons. 

“Can you tell me about the person who was going to hurt you?” Ratchet asked. Prowl felt cold radiating all around him, the ocean lapping at his feet, trying to eat him up. 

“I don’t want to,” Prowl said. 

“You can’t be hurt now. I’m here, and you are safe,” Ratchet said. 

“You don’t understand,” Prowl said. “I would rather -- be nothing.” 

“Prowl…” Ratchet’s presence wrapped around him comfortingly, but Prowl tried to shake him away. 

“I tore myself apart,” Prowl said, looking at the outline of his hands. Some of it was starting to fill out, but the pieces felt misaligned, still. “I’ll grind my plating into dust and let it wash away into the ocean. It can’t find me if I’m dust,” Prowl said, scratching at the reforming paint, trying to pry it away. 

“But you didn’t,” Ratchet pointed out as he gently took his hands. “Why not?”

“Bluestreak,” Prowl answered helplessly. He lifted his hands for Ratchet to see his core, see the pair of hands that were not his own cradling his cowering spark. “He made me hold myself together. I didn’t want to hurt him,” Prowl explained tearfully. 

“You didn’t, Bluestreak is alright,” Ratchet explained calmly. 

“I did,” Prowl said, water rising around his feet as the island they were standing on started to sink into the ocean. Realization started to dawn on him, paint flocking to him, clinging to him like a red letter. The world grew dimmer, the islands started to fade and the ocean lurched around them, trying to drag them both under. Even Ratchet started to lose his footing, he looked around, concerned, talking to someone in the distance. 

“I can’t be forgiven,” Prowl said icily as the chill of his own spark started to battle Ratchet’s warmth. 

“Jazz,” Ratchet said, standing again, trying to pull Prowl to the island. “It’s going to replay, we can’t stop it now,” he said. “Perceptor -- stay in the proxy.”

The current rose and Prowl watched it with detached horror. It tugged first at Ratchet’s feet, and then his own, but Ratchet held him at arm’s reach and Prowl felt someone tugging on him from behind with small, urgent hands. The water rose and and Prowl watched the monster within, mouthless, a single optic glowing in the darkness. It plunged, and they were both cast into the mercy of a memory. 

 

Prowl did not know how he avoided the thing living in the current, but he sank. Ratchet was no longer with him -- he had been swallowed up into the memory, but Prowl knew he would find him again once he passed through the center, and they would face the thing together. But now, he was sinking. Sinking, and sinking, into a rift he hadn’t known was there, some great trench carved out in his mind with a blunt instrument. There were lights at the bottom. He turned to see them, vaguely aware of Jazz floating in the blackness beside him. Prowl felt bigger than he had been, the paint clung to him and reminded him of a shape he used to have. 

“Jazz,” Prowl said quietly. 

“Prowl,” Jazz acknowledged. 

“This is Praxus,” Prowl said as they sank. Seekers drifted past them in silence, vanishing into the dark water. “This is how I killed Praxus.” 

They sank silently. They watched skyscrapers that had once stood proud and tall slowly melt in the face of massive beams of light. Civilians spilled out of the windows, taking their chances with the fall, while others held each other in poses that would become distorted monuments to their lives. The map was peppered with flashes of light as civilians and Autobots alike tried, in vain, to defend the city. The press of Decepticon forces was relentless, ruthlessly calculated. On a rooftop near the building Prowl used to work, one small group of Autobots was picked off one by one until only one remained. He ran, and hid in the remains of a shopping complex. 

“Bluestreak,” Jazz said. 

Prowl said nothing. Seekers hounded Bluestreak through the mall, through the streets and into empty buildings that were then glassed and turned molten. Tank shells wailed through windows and emaciated rooms around him until the roof threatened to collapse and he was driven to the next flimsy piece of cover, the next narrow alley full of corpses. Prowl highlighted targets all around him, but never aimed for his brother. The misses were careful, this was a rule strictly enforced -- Prowl had dedicated a whole unit solely to ensuring this task was carried out correctly. Bluestreak was labeled an essential asset.

“You protected him,” Jazz said. 

“No,” Prowl replied. Jazz glanced at him, then reached down to pluck the tag from Bluestreak to read it. 

“Propaganda asset,” he murmured, puzzled. Realization suddenly dawned on his face. “Because he -- never stops talking. You wanted him to demoralize the Autobots by having him snap, and having everyone hear it,” Jazz murmured. 

“I tortured him.” 

“You protected him the only way you could,” Jazz reiterated.

“I didn’t. It was a tactical decision. I didn’t have the presence of mind to protect him, I just used what I knew against him.” 

“He would have died. You have to admit your choice was biased. You wanted him to live,” Jazz urged. “No one can blame you for this.” 

“I destroyed my own home. I tormented my own brother, killed his entire unit in front him. His friends. I deserve the blame. I deserve to be punished,” Prowl said. 

“Listen to me,” Jazz said, taking Prowl’s head in his hands as they sank through the oozing remains of Praxus, Prowl’s mind sinking into the molten metal. “You did not do this. The Decepticons did this. They took control of your own mind away from you. That’s what’s unforgivable. Do you see this?” Jazz said, peeling back a layer of his own chassis, letting a little bit of his own light leak out -- light that was all fury, inchoate rage.

“Jazz…” Prowl said weakly. 

“This is how I feel,” Jazz said. “This anger -- this is for them, for taking your mind away from you, for using it to destroy your home and your family. It makes me sick. But it’s all for  _ them _ . It’s not for  _ you _ .” 

“I can’t hold on to that,” Prowl murmured. 

“Why not?” Jazz asked. 

“It will hollow me out. There’ll be nothing left worth saving,” Prowl replied quietly. “There’s already so little.” 

“You’re just like Bluestreak. I don’t  _ get  _ it. Being angry isn’t  _ wrong _ . Being angry about something -- this horrible, this monstrous --  is completely reasonable!” 

“Yes,” Prowl replied. “It is. Anger is the logical emotion to have. But I’m tired, Jazz.”

“And you don’t care anymore,” Jazz filled in bitterly. “Whether we live or die or anything.” 

“That’s not fair,” Prowl complained. “I’m trying. Please, Jazz.” There was a pause that hovered between them, like the disconnect between Prowl’s plating and his paint. 

“I’m going to take you to find Ratchet, now,” Jazz said simply. 

“There’s no need. It will come, it always does.” Prowl replied. 

 

Ratchet considered himself lucky that Prowl’s mind was as categorical as it was. The memory that swept him away and tried to devour him was full of excruciating pain, overwhelming shame, guilt, terror -- but all the while there was an underlying attempt to chronicle and rationalize the experience. The attempts to form a hypothesis, an experimental structure to test it, and draw some kind of conclusion that could be used to predict the next most likely scenario hovered above everything like a rail that Ratchet could cling to to avoid being completely swept away by the playback. Ratchet webbed himself in the numbers and lines of code as best he could, but there were times when even Prowl had become so overwhelmed by his experience that he lost track. These were times when he could only exist in that moment, when past and future disappeared, and he became a point with no reference.

Ratchet felt like he would drown in these moments. They were stretched long and thin by Prowl’s lack of lucidity, the absence of any way to comprehend the passage of time. Even with a fully functioning processor, Ratchet struggled to comprehend exactly what was happening. Doorwings being removed slice by careful slice as they were dissected, the deafening silence when the input finally disappeared. Hands pressing into his mouth, jamming something down his throat until his jaw dislocated -- and then he had no jaw, no way to bite or scream. Slipping in and out of consciousness until they force-fed him enough energon and other stimulants to keep him awake even though he was exhausted to the point of collapse. Hands wrapping around his throat, his thighs, digging into every seam with fingers and then with scalpels, cutting him up along the edges -- 

Trying to predict the sequence of parts to be removed bought Ratchet time to breathe. His doorwings were gone, given the cuts being made along his knees, it would be his legs, next, then maybe his thighs. Or would they take his arms at the elbow? Hands first, came the logical thought. Dislocating and pulling out his servos segment by segment would hurt more. They would leave his face alone now, he thought hopefully, at least until they were done with his limbs. 

Prediction started to become reality. Ratchet could barely stand living out the destruction of his hands digit by digit, but for Prowl, this was far from the worst of it. No, the worst finally came when they started to peel open his chassis layer by layer, mechanism by delicate mechanism. It wasn’t because this was more painful than any of the rest of his dissection had been, but simply because he did not want to share his spark. It was his, he thought desperately, his calculations finally giving way and leaving Ratchet to flounder. His mind was gone, his body was in pieces, his spark was the last piece of him that was just his. 

And then it simply wasn’t. There wasn’t a piece of Prowl left that didn’t belong, in some way, to Shockwave, to the decepticons. They had combed through his thoughts until, Prowl was sure, they knew everything about him, every fear, every secret. They had torn apart his body and now, surely, knew secrets about it even Prowl didn’t know. And now they were touching his spark, measuring it, weighing it, recording its shape, the speed of its rotation, how much charge it could take before it started to collapse in on itself, how long and how hard it was to stabilize. How this affected Prowl’s state of mind, whether or not it had a positive or negative effect on how fast and how well he could kill Praxus, whether and how much it made his personality shift. How it reacted to dark energon, whether or not that sped its collapse.

Ratchet couldn’t parse the damage. The number of times Prowl had been reduced to just a point of light, a blink away from death, was difficult to comprehend. In some way, Shockwave had proven his worth as a scientist -- simply sustaining Prowl’s spark through the various tortures was nothing short of a coup against death. It was no wonder Prowl could not feel his feet, struggled to walk, and felt like his frame was too large. It  _ was _ too large, because his spark could no longer bear the weight of it. He would need to be completely downgraded, probably permanently. 

Ratchet drifted helplessly through the rest of the memory, the reconstruction -- almost as painful as the deconstruction -- the chair, the constant threat of another dissection. The memory began to unravel, here, as Prowl’s ability to comprehend his own environment started to collapse. The fear remained, stroking against his spine like the tip of a knife, but the pain only seemed like a mild discomfort compared to what he had already been through. 

“Ratchet,” Prowl’s voice drifted to him. 

“I understand why you didn’t want to see this,” Ratchet whispered back. Prowl stood next to him, more whole than he had been, watching the memory drift by. Ratchet took him firmly by the arm to prevent him from being pulled into the current -- it would be safer to watch from a distance. “I’m sorry I tried to make you look. I’m sorry that this happened.” 

“I needed to see it,” Prowl replied hoarsely. “I remember pulling everything apart. Where I tried to hide things,” Prowl said. Ratchet could see the shoreline highlighted by Perceptor -- the continent where Prowl had kept his mind, hidden deep below the water, now surfacing, reconstructing itself. Praxus, as it once had been, and also Praxus as it now was. 

“I think Trailbreaker was right,” Ratchet seemed smaller now, a less certain presence, but still welling with the desire to comfort, to envelop. “It would have been kinder to let you forget.” 

“I don’t know,” Prowl replied quietly. “It doesn’t matter now. I can repair things from here.” 

“Are you sure?” Ratchet asked. “I’ll stay as long as you want.” 

“There are still things I don’t know how to share,” Prowl said. “I’m not ready for anyone to see them.” 

“I understand,” Ratchet said. He turned to the visor that was still lurking in the dark, the only noticeable sign that Jazz was anywhere in Prowl’s mind. It slowly faded, but Ratchet lingered, trying to make sure Jazz had really logged out. Perceptor was already gone. In the end, Ratchet couldn’t be sure, but he left anyways, feeling like less of himself. 

 

 


	18. 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter, a little shorter than the last one! We're getting nearer to solving this puzzle than ever!

It was two days after Ratchet finally disconnected before Prowl woke up. Bluestreak tried to sleep the time away, sitting and watching his brother and feeling uncertain if he would ever wake up was too difficult. Ratchet avoided the room as much as he could as he drew up plans to downgrade Prowl’s frame. It would be an uncomfortable surgery for both of them, but it would have to wait until Prowl’s return no longer had to be a secret -- it would take too much time and too many resources for Ratchet to continue hand waving it as training. Jazz looked for other leads. 

“Perceptor,” Jazz asked, sitting on top of Perceptor’s desk -- he was back to trying to optimize the engines -- “do you think it’s possible to build an EMP strong enough to knock someone out but small enough to hide in the palm of your hand?” 

“Sure, why not,” Perceptor said as he tested another fuel estimate. They were going to have to leave a lot of bots in stasis at the rate things were going -- barely enough Autobots would remain to man the ship. “But you could just mass displace a regular one, that’d be easier.” 

“Wouldn’t that mess with the output?”

“Oh, yes. But, if you were clever about it, you could design it to capture the energy of its own displaced matter, and then you’d be able to calculate a very precise output. You’d just have to know the difference between the original and new mass. Bigger the device was originally, the more kick it would have. You’d only need a fairly paltry sized EMP to knock someone out, easy to put together out of spare parts.” 

“And, in your expert opinion, is there anyone on the base clever enough to build such a device?” Jazz asked. 

“Oh, well, there are a number, yes. There’s me, obviously, and there’s Wheeljack. Hoist could think it up, he’s quite clever with that sort of thing when he has to be, and Grapple could also build it. Ratchet doesn’t really mess with mass displacement, but he could build the device, though I don’t see why he’d need to, with his hands and all. Let’s think. Brainstorm could and would -- he’s built a few mass displacement rays, actually, so he’s quite high on the list in terms of someone who could and would think of the idea.” 

“Brainstorm has a shrink ray?” Jazz leaned forward, crossing his arms. “Could anyone use it?”

“Sure -- but not anyone could build the EMP specifically designed to use its own mass displaced energy. I think if anyone on the base built what you’re talking about -- and I do hope no one did -- it would have been Brainstorm. He has the equipment, the know-how, and the imagination.” Perceptor said, frowning as the results of his test gave worse returns than he’d been hoping for. If he could squeeze just another three percent efficiency out of the engines, they’d be able to add five extra crew to the ship. Five less bots left behind to the uncertain fate of their dying planet. 

“And Brainstorm’s working on the ship’s weapon’s array. He’d be at some of the command meetings to deliver reports, wouldn’t he?” 

“Yes, he’s been at a few,” Perceptor said. “Wait -- you don’t think he built  _ and _ used it, do you?” 

“I’m pulling at straws, here, but right now, he’s my best suspect, yeah.” 

“But -- Brainstorm knows our  _ entire _ weapon system -- it would be catastrophic if he was the mole,” Perceptor finally looked away from his work, staring at Jazz, aghast. Jazz looked back at him grimly. 

“You’re not wrong,” he said, crossing his arms. 

“It can’t be him,” Perceptor insisted. 

“Why not?” 

“Because he’s -- I don’t know, it would -- the setbacks if we had to redesign things now would be --” 

“Take a vent, Percy!” Jazz said, putting a hand on the smaller bot’s shoulder. “We don’t know for sure. It’s just a guess, like I said. I need you to keep this to yourself, too.” 

“I won’t even entertain the idea,” Perceptor snapped. “I need to work on these schematics now, please,” he added, rapidly turning back to his desk. Jazz sighed. 

“Sorry. I’ll let you work,” Jazz said, turning to leave. 

 

Iacon, Ratchet thought, was the perfect place to say goodbye. Goodbye to tearful friends who were too injured or too traumatized to even be considered for Ark placement. Goodbye to dead friends who he might never have time or room in his spark to mourn. Goodbye to Praxus, a burning haze on the skyline. Goodbye to Cybertron. 

Iacon had always been a city of goodbyes. It sat in the nexus of intercity highways, all roads on Cybertron seemed to lead back to Iacon. But they also all lead away. It was a good place for friends from disparate cities to meet, forever halfway between here and somewhere. It had, in that sense, always been a city of departures as well -- but this would be the final one. 

Ratchet was taking one of the quiet moments to stand on the ramparts, trying to make a snapshot for himself. The city didn’t really look like itself anymore. The roads that had made it so central were blockaded, tall buildings had all been abandoned except as lookouts, everything and anything had been stripped down for part, leaving nothing but skeletal architecture. Most of the Autobots were sequestered underground, setting up stasis pods, or otherwise in the old hall of records which had been hollowed out to allow for the building of the Ark. There were no lights on in the city, either -- couldn’t waste the energon. Everybody and everything was running on vapour. 

“Ratchet, how are you doing?” Mirage’s voice came out of nowhere, which made Ratchet jump and nearly lose his balance. Mirage leaned on the railing and chuckled lightly at him. 

“Don’t  _ do _ that!” Ratchet snapped. He put his face in his hands. “You scared me.” 

“I gathered. I’m sorry,” Mirage said, half teasing and half in earnest. “I heard about how things went from Jazz. Wanted to check up on you, see if you needed someone to talk to, since usual channels are out.” 

“I appreciate that,” Ratchet said. “I’m not sure I know how to talk about it. It was -- vivid,” Ratchet said, crossing his arms. “I thought I’d seen a lot already. I have seen a lot. But I don’t think anything prepares you for what Prowl went through. I thought the replay was going to damage my spark. It didn’t, but I had to check to make sure.” 

“It makes you wonder how many people it’s happened to. People you think you relate to, but maybe don’t,” Mirage suggested. Ratchet nodded. 

“I keep thinking I don’t know how to help Prowl come back from it. And wondering if there have been patients I’ve thought I’ve helped, but whose pain I didn’t  _ really _ understand. Like maybe I’ve just been offering band-aid solutions.” 

“You’re there for them, and that matters more than anything else, I think. That’s what matters most to me, anyways. That I’ve got people to turn to when it’s too much,” Mirage supplied, gently putting a hand on Ratchet’s shoulder. 

“It makes me worry what we’ll be when this is all over. If there are things we can’t adapt to.” 

“I don’t know,” Mirage murmured. “I guess I’ll just cross my servos and hope for the best.” 

“I am not a superstitious sort, Mirage,” Ratchet sighed. “But I  _ guess _ hope’s not too novel a concept for me.” 

“Take what you can get, Ratchet.” 

 

Prowl onlined his optics. It was dark in Ratchet’s habsuite, the lights were never on unless they had to be, he remembered. He was, vaguely, aware of two other people in the room -- Bluestreak because his hand was curled tightly around his own, and someone else, whose engine made a soft whirring noise. Ironhide. 

Prowl didn’t move, he didn’t want to upset the delicate balance of things. The silence and the darkness seemed to emanate from his own spark, this was the only way he could fill the room and his own frame. The longer he stayed like this, the more time he had to try to find the right words for Bluestreak, and to find the name that Jazz wanted so badly. 

He offlined his optics again. It would be good to try to put things in order now that he was conscious. There was the war, he was a high-ranking tactical officer. He’d been kidnapped by the Decepticons and used to calculate the most efficient means of destroying Praxus. He’d been rescued by Jazz and brought secretly into Iacon to receive treatment. 

Praxus. Prowl grimaced. Now that he was conscious and his battle computer was online, he figured the worst thing about Praxus was how easy it had really been once he’d thrown out the standard moral and ethical dilemmas commanders faced. Decepticons would glass their own troops if they didn’t get out of the way fast enough, civilians that wouldn’t join the cause were better off recycled. Whatever was the most efficient, regardless of its brutality. 

Prowl onlined his optics again and slowly started to sit up, grimacing and giving up halfway into the motion -- half his mechanisms were locked into place from stiffness, and his hands were still partly numb. He still couldn’t feel his feet at all. 

The movement disturbed Bluestreak, who snapped up. 

“Prowl!” he gasped. “You’re awake -- are you -- feeling okay?” 

“I’m stiff,” Prowl replied. “Can you help me sit up?” 

“Er -- if you want to, yeah, okay,” Bluestreak said, gently propping up Prowl’s back as he tried to sit up, grumbling at the effort. “Do you -- know where you are, and all that stuff now?” 

“Yes, I remember the basics, anyways,” Prowl replied. Ironhide glanced over at them. 

“Should I get Ratchet?” Ironhide asked. 

“Yes please,” Bluestreak said. “Thanks Ironhide.” 

“Sure,” Ironhide said, turning for the door. 

“Get Jazz, too, Ironhide,” Prowl said. Ironhide paused.

“You sure?” 

“I think I have some important information for him.” 

“Alright, if you say so,” Ironhide said, stepping out into the hall and closing the door behind him. 

“Er, so, how are you, uh, feeling?” Bluestreak asked, fidgeting awkwardly once Prowl was settled. “Oh I’ll -- I’ll get you some energon, Ratchet said you would need some, so there’s some here,” he suddenly interrupted, jumping to his feet to run for a cabinet. He pulled out a cube of medical grade energon, which made Prowl grimace, but he accepted it anyways and sipped it. 

“Thank you, Bluestreak,” he said after he’d had about half the cube. “I’m feeling -- alright, I suppose, given the circumstances. How are you?” 

“I’m fine! I’m okay, I mean, I’m just -- I’m doing alright. I’m not as bad off as you, so I can -- you know, I can deal with it, what’s important is how you’re feeling,” Bluestreak scrambled. Prowl watched him carefully -- twitching doorwings, avoiding eye contact. Hands in lap, posture closed, no smiling. 

“Here, Blue, come here,” Prowl said, setting aside the half-empty cube and reaching out to pull Bluestreak into a hug. “You matter just as much as I do. There’s nothing wrong with you if you say you’re not okay. None of this is normal.” 

“I know, I know, but I just -- I want to know how you’re doing,” Bluestreak mumbled. 

“I know about what you went through in Praxus,” Prowl said quietly. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Bluestreak replied. 

“It is my fault. I was making the plans. I picked you,” Prowl murmured. Bluestreak stiffened. 

“What?” 

“The Decepticons wanted a witness. I picked you,” Prowl explained, releasing Bluestreak and pulling away. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s -- I -- Prowl,” Bluestreak blurted. “I don’t -- I mean I -- I understand but I -- you didn’t have a choice, right? You didn’t have a choice so -- it’s -- not like you -- Prowl,” Bluestreak held out his hands pleadingly. Prowl sat and watched his brother with an icy feeling of calm, he’d projected this reaction already. 

“I don’t know. I was thinking and making decisions, but I was not conscious, really. I don’t know if I chose you because I knew on some level it was a way for me to save your life or if it was because I really evaluated you as the best target. I know I didn’t understand the emotional consequences for either of us,” Prowl explained, looking down at his own hands, paint scraped away down to silver. 

“It’s not your fault, I get to decide that, right? I get to decide who I blame and I don’t blame you, that’s my decision about how I feel. I don’t want you to try and make me hate you because you -- you feel like you did something wrong,” Bluestreak snapped. “The Decepticons did this. It’s  _ not _ your fault and I’m not going to resent you for it.” 

Prowl sat quietly for a moment, and before he could think of what to say, the door opened again and Ratchet stepped in, followed shortly by Jazz. He flipped on the light, making Prowl wince. 

“You’ve got your head together now?” Ratchet asked. 

“More or less,” Prowl replied as Ratchet came and ran loose scans over his processor, using the results as an excuse to frown.

“That’s good. You took a lot of damage to your spark that I didn’t detect, since the symptoms were -- well, all over the place,” Ratchet immediately began to explain. “We’re going to run some diagnostic tests and try to find out what your new spark load is, and then I’ll have to make frame adjustments. It’s going to be a lot of uncomfortable surgery. I’ll upgrade your armour when we do it.” 

“I understand, but that is low priority at the moment. I do not need to be highly mobile until I can leave this room,” Prowl replied, which made Ratchet frown slightly, but nod. 

“And you can’t do that until you give me the name I need,” Jazz explained. Prowl nodded. Bluestreak bristled, but kept quiet. 

“A good deal of my memory from around the time in question is corrupted,” Prowl said. “I do know who knocked me out, but I would like to preface it with the following: I do not think he was fully cognizant, and I do not think he was working alone.” 

“Let’s start with the first link in the chain then, anyways,” Jazz said, gesturing. “Who knocked you out?” 

“It was Red Alert.” 


	19. 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some questions answered, more questions asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks so much for all your really great comments, they inspired me to hammer this sucker out a lil faster than my usual pace for this fic, haha! But it's getting into Grind Time for me for the next month. I hope I'll be able to get another segment finished up for you at the usual pace at least, though! Also apparently someone rec'd the fic on tumblr?? Thanks so much! 
> 
> Anyways. Have a great coupla weeks, everyone! Thanks for reading. <3

Jazz suddenly understood how Bluestreak felt. 

He wanted to throw in the towel. It was suddenly much easier not to care about what happened than it was to deal with the new and difficult reality that he was confronted with. 

“Go on?” he prompted with some desperation. Red Alert was among his top ten worst possible answers, and it had been completely out of left field. 

“He wasn’t himself,” Prowl explained. “Red Alert is paranoid, to the point where it plays out in his body language -- he’s closed off, rarely enters other people’s space. The Red Alert who confronted me was very forward, talkative.” 

“Was it a disguise? Holoform?” Jazz asked hopefully. 

“No, I would have noticed a hologram that close up. I’m sure it really was Red Alert. His optics were very bright. I thought, at the time, that he was inebriated, I remember.” Prowl recalled thoughtfully. 

“So what...do you think was wrong with him?” Jazz asked, searchingly. Prowl squinted, tenting his servos and pressing them to his lips. Ratchet interjected.

“This may be relevant -- he’s been complaining of headaches. Light and sound sensitivity, confusion, and overheating,” Ratchet explained. Jazz, who had been waiting for an excuse and a target, rounded on the medic. 

“Why wouldn’t you tell us this?! This is the head of our security you’re talking about! This is information I needed to know!” Jazz snapped. Ratchet stood his ground. 

“Optimus was informed. Between us and the other council members it was decided to keep it on the downlow. I didn’t deem Red Alert incapable of performing his duties. His confusion wasn’t about the security system, and believe me, I tested him. He was monitored, and he had Inferno double checking his work.” 

“Then what was his confusion about?” Bluestreak asked.

“It was like blackouts. He described feeling like he was on autopilot, and unsure of how he was getting from place to place at certain times -- mostly when he was off duty. It was similar to shell-shocked mechs operating on minimal defrag, and Red Alert has been through combat and many bombings, so I chalked it up to that. I prescribed bedrest and regular check-ups.”

“You didn’t think to do, I dunno, a cerebral scan, or anything?!” Jazz didn’t let up -- couldn’t let up. It had to be someone’s fault, and Ratchet had made himself a perfect target.

But Ratchet wasn’t buying the lameness of Jazz’s logic. He slammed a fist down onto Prowl’s recharge slab, startling Bluestreak and Prowl out of their respective reveries -- he almost sent Prowl scrambling, which he was immediately embarrassed about, but only Bluestreak noticed anyways. Ratchet puffed up, jamming a servo into Jazz’s chassis and forcibly walking him back into the wall. 

“Do you know how many injured and dying mechs I have to deal with, right now, on top of provisioning and preparations for stasis and Ark travel? Red’s important, yes. But his symptoms weren’t extraordinary, I have thousands of soldiers suffering the same and worse. I had at that time no reason to suspect foul play. If I had, I would have dedicated more resources to finding out the cause of his headaches.” 

“Ratchet,” Prowl held out his servos somewhat appeasingly, trying to draw Ratchet off of Jazz, who, despite being shamed and knowing he was in the wrong, was still glaring daggers at the medic. “Ratchet, knowing what you do now, what do you think Red’s symptoms are from?” 

“My original diagnosis still makes the most sense, but given his actions, I wouldn’t rule out some kind of processor manipulation. It could be suggestive mnemnosurgery,” Ratchet said, turning back to Prowl at last. “That would require an initial surgery to plant hypnotic triggers, and then some kind of dedicated handler to give him those triggers and his orders. Someone with access. As we all know and have stated several times, Red Alert is extremely paranoid. He’s taken as many precautionary measures as he can, he even wears a neck-guard when he’s recharging. Whoever did this probably outranks him.” 

“But he’s the chief of security,” said Bluestreak. “That’s -- pretty high up there, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, it is,” Prowl agreed. Jazz was still sulking near the wall a bit, he crossed his arms, considering. 

“It might not have been a mnemnosurgery,” he finally grumbled. “If it’s just suggestive triggers, it could be a targeted virus. Easier to administer. Wouldn’t leave marks.”

“If it’s a virus wouldn’t it infect other people?” Bluestreak asked. 

“Not if it wasn’t programmed to,” Ratchet helpfully explained. 

“Why not just hit Prowl with it directly, though? Why go through Red Alert?” Bluestreak asked. 

“Two reasons,” Prowl said. “First, my processor is very different from the standard Cybertronians. It would be very hard to engineer a virus specifically for me. Red Alert’s processor is also fairly unique, but it’s more prone to infection than mine, which is part of why Red is so paranoid. Second, it’s likely Red Alert has been infected for some time, and that I was just one of many various objectives.” 

“Augh. Our whole network’s probably compromised,” Jazz groaned. “This is huge. This could kill us all.” 

“We’re onto it now, and we’ll do that we can to make sure that doesn’t happen,” Ratchet snapped. “There’s no use getting mopey about it.” He paused, thinking. “You are right about the duration, though, Red’s complaints do predate your abduction by a month or so. Not that long, but not insignificant.” 

“So what do we do?” Bluestreak asked. 

“We take Red Alert. We uproot the virus in his system, and we find out if he can identify his handler or anyone else involved,” Prowl explained. 

“How did Red Alert knock you out?” Jazz asked suddenly. Prowl looked up, but then frowned. 

“I remember, he was standing close to me, and he put a hand near my face. I don’t remember what he did. There was a light, and I felt like I had been struck. Then nothing.” 

“That sounds like probably an EMP, yeah?” Jazz asked.

“That seems consistent, yes,” Prowl replied. 

“Ratchet, is it standard for medics or security personnel to carry EMPs?” Jazz asked. Ratchet shrugged, then frowned, looking at the floor. 

“Medics who carry them either have small ones in the hands, like mine, or wrist-mounted ones. The ones in my hands couldn’t be used to instantly knock someone out, not without frying my own circuitry to get the required energy through the circuits in one boost -- they’re designed to for details, not brute force. The wrist mounted variety are fairly large, and Prowl would probably have identified it, especially since Red Alert doesn’t carry one. Security personnel use those when they want a non-lethal option, but they’re uncommon, since only medics are built to withstand their effects, and there’s a chance of backfire. There are EMP grenades but that would have also knocked out Red Alert.” 

“Yeah. It’d have to be custom built,” Jazz explained. 

“Yes, but it wouldn’t be hard to do so. It would just be hard to regulate the output --” 

“Yes, I know, I talked with Perceptor about it already. I think I got a second lead. Ratchet, Red Alert trusts you. I want you to lure him here, and I’m gonna get Mirage and Ironhide to help you detain him. You’re gonna root the virus or whatever it is out. I’m gonna pursue this other lead in the meantime,” Jazz said. 

“Er. Should we do this right now?” Bluestreak asked. 

“As soon as you’ve got something to hold Red Alert, yes, that’d be ideal,” Jazz said, frowning. “Given he is currently a massive security threat.” 

“I don’t want to betray Red Alert’s trust, Jazz. It was  _ very very _ hard to earn. Get someone else to do your dirty work,” Ratchet added, crossing his arms. 

“Bluestreak can do it,” Prowl said thoughtfully. Bluestreak jumped, then pointed at himself. 

“Me?” 

“Yes, you,” Prowl said. 

“Why me?” Bluestreak asked. 

“You’re friendly and no one really thinks of you as a plotter. Red Alert may not trust you, but he has no reason to  _ distrust _ you,” Prowl explained. 

“Er...okay, I guess,” Bluestreak scratched the back of his helm. Ratchet shifted a bit uncomfortably, but ultimately shrugged.

“I won’t lure Red Alert, but I will build you something to restrain him with once we get him in here,” he said, stomping off to dig through some more supplies. Jazz clapped his hands. 

“So you all know what you’re doing? I trust Prowl can coordinate this?” Jazz asked  cheekily. Ratchet rolled his optics, and Prowl nodded. 

“Yes, I think I know what to do.” 

 

Red Alert walked through the halls of Iacon stiffly and with great concentration. 

He’d taken to counting his steps. He knew, within a certain margin of error, exactly how many steps it took to get from his office to the mess, to the mess from his hab, and so on and so forth. It had become a compulsive habit at this point. 

This was because sometimes he would find himself missing steps. More than he could reasonably account for with momentary lapses in concentration, more than he could chalk up to changes in his gait based on his fuel levels or his mood. No, huge chunks of footsteps sometimes simply vanished, he would seem to make the trip from his hab to his office in just fifty steps, when it should have taken over five times that amount. 

It was odd, he knew, that he noticed missing steps in his count, but that he didn’t miss the corresponding lost time. Or, rather, that he only noticed the latter due to the former. One would think that losing time would be alarming, but Red Alert never would have noticed if he hadn’t been so concentrated on his counting. 

It didn’t make sense, and it was deeply frightening to know something was wrong, and not be sure what to do about it. 

Ratchet had thought it was fatigue, and at first, that seemed to make sense. Lots of people experienced fatigue, and Red Alert  _ was _ tired, and stressed. But that had been before he had started his counting. 

He was, coincidentally, headed towards Ratchet’s habsuite now, he realized as he walked. Bluestreak had chosen a strange place for their meeting. 

_ Not a coincidence _ , Red Alert thought to himself as he rounded the corner. He blinked thoughtfully. Disorientation, fatigue, confusion -- easy symptoms to diagnose. Ratchet had picked the most likely cause and, honestly, Red Alert couldn’t blame him -- had even believed him. It made sense. But lost time? Lost time pointed to something more insidious. The time he lost was longer than the lost footsteps. 

And if it was the worst, if Red Alert  _ was _ compromised…

He rounded the corner again and saw Bluestreak down the hall, in front of Ratchet’s habsuite. Red Alert gave him a bewildered and somewhat alarmed look, and Bluestreak looked back at him, also nervous and alarmed by Red Alert’s expression, but Red Alert didn’t slow down. 

Of course, if Red Alert was compromised, Ratchet or Inferno would notice, and would naturally arrange to have him safely detained until they could figure out what was wrong. And if that was happening, they would logically want to do it inconspicuously, with as few people of it aware as possible, including Red Alert, because who knew what his programming might send him away to do if he was found out? 

Red Alert walked up to Bluestreak and nodded. Bewildered, Bluestreak nodded back, not sure why he was nodding. Red Alert turned to the habsuite doors and keyed in the passcode. Bluestreak blinked. 

“Uh?” He asked as Red Alert walked boldfaced into the benign trap his friends had set for him. He had to be stopped. 

“Detain me!” He yelled as he stepped through the door, throwing his hands up. 

The trap was a little slow to be sprung, which was a little disappointing to Red Alert in retrospect, but he supposed he may have messed up the timing by not giving Bluestreak enough time to notify the mechs inside. Ironhide bodychecked him to the floor, and Red Alert let it happen, and then someone put him in stasis cuffs, probably Mirage, and then he was being politely hoisted up and set in a chair. He blinked, a little disoriented by the bodyslam and the dim lights. He looked around the room: Ratchet was there, no surprise, Ironhide, Bluestreak, and Prowl. Red Alert blinked. 

“Wait, Prowl?” he asked. Prowl was sitting on a berth, oddly curled in on himself, but attentive. Bluestreak had followed Red Alert into the room and had moved to sit beside his brother, and they were far-off in the corner of the hab, perched on a spare berth somewhat defensively, doorwings high. 

“Yes, it’s me,” Prowl said. Red Alert wracked his processor, trying to pick up how Prowl would have gotten back into Iacon without him knowing. Probably with Mirage, he guessed, Mirage was always sneaking through his perimeter. 

“Are -- you alright? Where were you?” Red Alert was asking without thinking about it. “Oh, no, was I…” he felt coolant jet through his systems as realization hit him, and then a deep, dark cold settled around his spark as the reality of his situation finally started to sink in. 

Prowl understood, Red Alert could see from the exhaustion in his posture and the weariness of his gaze. He hoped the tactician could also forgive him for whatever he’d done in addition to granting him sympathy.

“Red Alert,” Ratchet interjected. “We think you’re infected with a virus, or that you’ve been the victim of mnemnosurgery.” 

“Yes, I agree,” Red Alert said, staring at the floor. 

“Oh,” Ratchet said, a bit bewildered. “That does explain your desire to be detained, then,” the medic mumbled. 

“Yes, I figured out what must be happening just as I was walking up,” Red Alert said. “The pieces all fit. I was fatigued, so it was only after getting the recommended bedrest that I started to realize I wasn’t just confused, but also losing time,” he explained. 

“Ah...I’m sorry, Red, I wish I’d caught it,” Ratchet said, putting a hand on his shoulder. Red Alert shrugged. 

“It’s not your job to catch these things,” he reassured, then more quietly added, “it’s mine.” 

“I’m assuming, then, you’ve got no idea who’s done this to you?” Mirage asked, leaning against the wall far opposite Prowl and Bluestreak, where Red Alert had overlooked. Red Alert shook his head. 

“No,” he said. “I can’t recall an incident during which I was compromised. It’s why I hadn’t already brought the matter to anyone’s attention,” he explained.

“Trying to collect evidence first,” Mirage nodded. 

“Stupid, you shoulda told someone!” Ironhide snapped. “Yer the friggin’ security director! You think you got a screw loose, you report it!” 

“He doesn’t need to be yelled at right now, Ironhide,” Ratchet snapped, but in a subdued way that suggested the severity of the situation and his concern for Red Alert outweighed his need to take his frustrations out on Ironhide. It was a tone that shamed anyone more than a raised hand or thrown wrench could, but especially Ironhide, who instantly deflated. 

“M’sorry,” he mumbled. 

“What do we do, then?” Bluestreak asked, looking at Ratchet and Prowl, who had his fingers tented and was staring intently at a spot of the floor a few metres ahead of him, thinking. 

“We already have everything set up from Prowl’s cerebral surgery. We’ll use the proxy and have to dive into Red’s code to find the virus or the surgery,” Ratchet said. 

“If Red Alert will acquiesce, I will dive in with you,” Prowl said. Ratchet blinked, taken aback. 

“Your security suite was decimated, Prowl, you’d be far too vulnerable,” Ratchet replied. 

“I’ve been working on rebuilding it. My processor is still not where it was, but that could work to our advantage,” Prowl explained. Red Alert frowned at him, trying to see where the tactician was going with this. He looked at Ratchet, who seemed uncomfortable, to Bluestreak, who looked sick, to Mirage, who looked severe and thoughtful. 

“Everything is still optimized for your taccom,” Mirage offered. “You’d be able to sift through Red Alert’s processor much, much faster than even a trained mnemnosurgeon. Faster than a virus can replicate and hide itself, if it’s a virus.” 

“Yes,” Prowl nodded. “And faster than Red Alert’s abnormal and overactive security suite could stop me.” 

“The virus has to be somehow using my own security against me. It’s the only explanation,” Red Alert offered, but Ratchet still looked uneasy, like the world’s tilt was shifting by degrees and he was the only one aware of it. 

“It would be extremely invasive. You could comb through and evaluate Red Alert’s entire memory core by accident,” Ratchet said. 

“That would be perfect!” Red Alert said. “That’s what he should do. Make sure there’s nowhere at all to hide, and you can act as a backup,” he said, looking over at Ratchet. 

“You -- you’re okay with this?” Ratchet said, hand over his mouth like he was going to be sick. 

“I want absolute certainty whatever is in my processor is gone. I need to know, and this is the most thorough option.” 

“He could damage your processor irreversibly. He could -- could -- effectively shadowplay you,” Ratchet held out his hands, “if he accidentally manipulates the wrong code. He’s not a trained medic.” 

“But you are. Prowl can find and tag the suspect code, and you can administer the anti-virals,” said Mirage. 

“We’ve gone over this, I’m  _ not _ a coding specialist,” Ratchet began, but Prowl cut him off. 

“You’re not editing code, you’re removing a virus or a fake memory. You’re very well trained in the former, and the latter isn’t difficult. We’re not  _ performing _ mnemnosurgery, we are  _ identifying _ it. Between my processor and your medical training we are, I think, very well equipped to deal with this.” 

“I agree with that assessment, and I trust you, Ratchet,” Red Alert said. 

“Your trust is as much a curse as it is a blessing these days, Red,” Ratchet said, sighing. “Alright. Fine. But I want to assess and reinforce your security suite first, Prowl, and Mirage, I want you to help me. If anything goes wrong I am going to insist we call Perceptor and Cerebros from wherever the slag he is to clean up the mess.” 

“Thank you, Ratchet,” Red Alert said, but he did not feel much relief: there was a hole in his mind and a hole in his security, and he did not know what else had already slipped through. 

 

Brainstorm was always walking the line between goofy and guilty, but even Jazz could read his discomfort as the spy sauntered around the labs. He didn’t make a secret out of eyeing the scientist, he wanted to know how he responded to scrutiny. The other mechs in the lab -- Wheeljack, Highbrow, Grapple -- noticed him but kept working, too busy to worry about whatever Jazz was here to look for if Jazz didn’t fight for their attention. But Brainstorm noticed him and fretted, even if he didn’t let it show. It screamed guilty, but Jazz couldn’t be sure of what. There was always a chance it was something innocuous like illegal gambling or overclockers -- problems, but not Jazz’s problems. 

Jazz had no trouble isolating Brainstorm -- when the current shift ended, it was no trouble at all for him to simply gesture to Brainstorm to follow him to a more secluded area. Brainstorm had no choice but to follow or else practically declare his guilt then and there -- Jazz was his superior officer, after all. 

“Jazz! What can I do for you,” Brainstorm asked as they stepped into a labspace that had been converted to temporary storage for the Ark’s departure. 

“I want you to tell me about mass displacement and EMPs, Brainstorm,” Jazz said, crossing his arms. 

“Ah,” Brainstorm rubbed the back of his helm somewhat sheepishly. “Someone did ask me to build something relating to that, and I’m starting to have a bad feeling about what it was used for,” he said. Jazz couldn’t help but smirk and quirk an eyebrow. 

“ _ Starting _ ? My mech, you were ready to crawl outta your plating just havin’ me hovering around you,” he said. Brainstorm threw his hands up.

“You’re scary! I’m scared of you!” he said. Jazz’s smile faded, and Brainstorm went back to fidgeting and looking away. “Yes, I did build a powerful little EMP using mass displacement. But only because I was asked to,” he said. 

“By who.” Jazz demanded. 

“Uh, I was told to, uh, keep it, uh, confidential, uh, for security, uh, reasons,” Brainstorm said, holding his hands up. Jazz grabbed one of his wrists and yanked on Brainstorm’s arm, causing him to teeter forwards, which gave Jazz the space he needed to awkwardly twist the arm behind Brainstorm’s back -- not a maneuver that made his particular frame type very comfortable. Jazz tightened his grip, threatening to pop the ball of Brainstorm’s elbow from the joint. 

“By who, Brainstorm,” Jazz said. “I’m not messing around. I’ll tear your arm clear off. They’ll be able to fix it, but it’s gonna hurt like the pits.” 

“If I tell you they’re gonna know I’m the one who told you and then I’ll be in trouble!” Brainstorm pleaded. “Big trouble!” 

“You are in big trouble right now, my mech,” Jazz snapped, tightening his hold. Brainstorm squirmed. 

“You gotta promise you didn’t hear this from me,” Brainstorm said. 

“I don’t owe you anything, Brainstorm. Lives are at stake. The entire Autobot cause is at stake. Tell me who told you to build this and I won’t list you as an accomplice, maybe.” 

“Fine, fine! Okay, okay okay, just don’t rip my arm off and I swear I  _ promise _ I don’t know what it was for except it was bad enough to make you wanna rip my arm off with very little provocation, I’m sorry but it was for -- ow! Ow! Okay! It was for Decimus! Decimus had me build a bunch of them!” 

Jazz was silent for a moment, then he released Brainstorm and took a few steps away, putting a hand over his visor. He took a vent. 

“Did he tell you why he wanted them?” he asked somewhat calmly. 

“He said it had something to do with upgrading security stunners for -- you know, the, uh, shell-shocked and the, uh, deserters,” Brainstorm said.

“Was anyone else involved? In any way?” Jazz asked. 

“Just Decimus’s own security mechs, and Red Alert,” Brainstorm said. “How bad is this? This seems really bad,” Brainstorm said, rubbing his elbow. 

“It’s bad. Go back to work. Don’t make any more EMPs, just tell ‘em you ran out of supplies.” 

“Er, okay,” Brainstorm said as Jazz stalked out of the labs. 

 

“It doesn’t mean Decimus was actually involved, you know,” Mirage was saying to him, decloaking as he entered the room. They were in an old building near the outer perimeter that had been abandoned some time ago. Jazz liked it -- it had once been a club, and had tall windows that overlooked the encampments in the streets below, and the remainder of Iacon’s brutalized skyline. 

“I know,” Jazz said. “But it’s likely. It’s suspicious at the least. But our own fragging council?” he shook his head. “The worst part is I’m not surprised. Not really.” 

“Me either,” said Mirage. “I don’t really want to believe it.” 

“I’d be surprised if it’d been Crosscut. But Proteus and Decimus? Nah. It shoulda been obvious,” Jazz said.

“Don’t say that,” Mirage replied curtly, pressing a hand to the glass and looking down. “If you’re not surprised that it’s within their character to do this, then at least be surprised they’d side with the Decepticons. After all, corrupt as they may be, neither one has any reason to help the enemy.” 

“That’s true. That’s what I don’t get, why Decimus would sell us out. Maybe he really did just want those EMPs for something, and Red Alert ‘borrowed’ one to knock out Prowl,” Jazz hummed, kicking a stray empty bottle of engex around the floor. Mirage crossed his arms, squinting up at the sky thoughtfully. 

“Maybe he just didn’t like Prowl, wanted to get rid of him,” Mirage offered. 

“There’s gotta be easier ways to do that then doing whatever he’s done to Red Alert,” Jazz replied, picking up the bottle and examining the label. He sat down at one of the tables with abandoned glasses and placed it there, pretending to be a regular customer. Mirage tore himself away from the window and came to sit with him, producing a ration cube from his subspace and pouring it carefully into the bottle to make the simulation of pre-war life feel more realistic. 

“Unless he’d already infected Red Alert and had him on hand,” Mirage pointed out, pouring Jazz a cup from the bottle, as if it really were engex, and not the low-grade energon they had become long accustomed to.

“But why? Just to have an ace in the hole if he needed it?” Jazz asked. 

“Politics is a long game to councillors like Decimus and Proteus. They’ve seen wars before. Decimus in particular has been unwilling to accept that this war is different from previous conflicts. He refuses to believe Cybertron is dead,” Mirage explained. Jazz took the cup and sipped it. 

“I’ve seen reports of what he says in meetings, yeah, about how the Ark’s a waste of time ‘n how we should be dedicatin’ more resources to scrapping the Decepticons, and every civilian an’ city in the way,” Jazz nodded over the glass, holding it by the rim like it was a drink worthy of the respect, even though it wasn’t. “But if anything, that means it makes even less sense to sell Prowl to the Decepticons. Even Decimus isn’t stupid enough to not know what they’d do with ‘im.” 

“Yes, it is strange,” Mirage said, swirling the energon around in his own cup, resting a head on his hand. “Unless...Oh.” he stopped, staring down into the vortex. Jazz leaned back, waiting. 

“Unless?” 

“Praxus. It was neutral,” Mirage said. 

“Yeah, it was,” Jazz said. “It’s not anymore.” 

“No one is, anymore. Maybe that’s why,” Mirage said. “Prowl was a Praxian enforcer, before he joined the Autobots. He wasn’t quite top brass, but he managed the bureaucratic aspects of the state’s enforcers. He was responsible for redesigning and optimizing their tactics for military preparation,” Mirage explained. 

“Yeah, he was the Paperwork and Internal Memo King, right? He did some taskforce stuff or something too.” 

“Yes -- but more importantly, Jazz, he managed Praxus’s militia and was preparing the enforcers for an eventual attack,” Mirage said. “He laid the groundwork for Praxus’s defenses. That’s why he was promoted so quickly when he joined the Autobots, he had the experience from that,” Mirage leaned forward over his drink, clutching it tightly in both hands. Jazz took another sip of his, frowning thoughtfully.

“That’s why he was able to help ‘em wreck it so fast and so thoroughly, yeah? That and the. Lack of scruples such as morality and ethics due to the. Machine,” Jazz commented. 

“Yes -- but think, Jazz! If you wanted to galvanize every remaining cybertronian, and importantly, all the neutrals left in Praxus, what would you do?” 

“Attack Praxus. Or, well, preferably, have my enemies attack Praxus,” Jazz replied, setting down his cup as realization dawned. “And -- Decimus gave them the key to the damn castle. The Decepticons couldn’t keep their paws off the place when they had such a big advantage.” 

“Exactly.”

“That’s genius, and horrible,” Jazz said. “And it was too effective. Most of the people they woulda wanted to join the Autobots have died,” Jazz grimaced, looking at his cup. 

“Decimus isn’t willing to recognize the reality of the situation, I doubt he comprehends the scale of destruction the Decepticons are currently capable of.” Mirage put the glass to his lips like he was going to sip, but then just held the glass there instead, looking out the window again. He vented and put the cup back down. “No army of new recruits like I bet he’d hoped. Just more evacuees.” 

“Mighta worked if he’d done it, oh, I dunno, a century ago,” Jazz snickered. 

“Would you have done something like that, given the opportunity?” Mirage asked quietly, still looking out the window. Jazz sighed. 

“I dunno, it’s all retrospective now, isn’t it? Woulda, coulda, shoulda. Yeah, it’d’ve been nice if more neutrals capable of fighting had gotten on side earlier. Probably in denial about the thing just like Decimus is. Don’t know if it woulda mattered, though. Core’s still poisoned. Besides, Praxus wasn’t really neutral. They were just trying to buy time to build their own arks and stockpile,” Jazz said. “Misjudged how much they had.” He paused again, considering. “But no. I wouldn’t’ve done anything like this.” 

“I worry maybe I would have,” Mirage rubbed his hands together. “After all, at this point, what’s another thousand dead? A hundred thousand? It’s all starting to lose meaning to me.” 

“Just imagine it’s one person, then. Would you kill just one innocent person?” Jazz asked, refilling Mirage’s cup. Mirage grimaced, taking a moment to try to imagine it -- the bot he that first came to mind was, for some reason, Bluestreak, and he felt coolant ice its way through his lines to his hands as he tried to picture pressing a gun to his head. The scenario didn’t progress to pulling the trigger as Mirage banished the thought. 

“No, I don’t think so, if I could avoid it,” he said, lifting the now filled cup back to his lips and forcing himself to take a sip.  

“Well, there you go, then,” Jazz said, taking a swig straight from the bottle. “How’s Red Alert?” 

“He’s aware he’s compromised. They’re doing a dive into his processor now, I didn’t feel the need to be present,” Mirage said. 

“Who is?” 

“Prowl and Ratchet. Through a proxy. I think they’ll be safe, I tested their firewalls and anti-virals before they went in and shored them up.” 

“Prowl is? That’s a little -- early, don’tcha think?” 

“He seemed confident he could do it. He’s been strange since this whole ordeal, and I don’t blame him, but he wasn’t acting in a way I felt was -- unusual.” 

“ _ I’m _ a little strange after this whole ordeal,” Jazz scoffed, knocking back his entire glass like it was potent-highgrade and not dry, diluted and sterilized rations. “He’s traumatized. He’s going to carry this forever, physically, mentally, right until he enters the well. Maybe even after.” 

“Mm. I guess I should -- say he seemed stable, then,” Mirage replied. 

“I’ll go check on them. I’m worried about Prowl,” Jazz said. 

“I’m worried about Ratchet, too. Bluestreak seems to be doing better at least now that Prowl’s got his sense back about him,” Mirage said. “What are you going to do about Decimus?” 

“I don’t know. I need to confirm it’s him that has a hold on Red Alert or that he's in collusion with the Decepticon who does. Whatever Prowl and Ratchet find will probably decide for me,” Jazz said, standing up and picking up the engex bottle and handing it to Mirage, who regretfully downed his cup and then started working on the bottle. It wouldn’t do to waste the energon. 

“If they don’t find anything?” Mirage asked between mouthfuls. 

“Then I’ll have to get creative. Check the footage, talk to Inferno, etcetera,” Jazz said. 

“I’ll tail Decimus?” Mirage asked. 

“Yeah, that’d be good. Get on him now -- I want to know if he’s looking for Red Alert,” Jazz said. 

“Of course. Good luck, Jazz,” Mirage said. 

“Good luck, Mirage.” 

 


	20. 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ratchet and Red Alert talk Feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 20 chapters! This is way longer than I ever thought it would be, whoops. Here's a small(ish?) update since I'm concerned I won't be able to get anything out before my trip! I'll try to have something up in September, but I'm going to be hecka busy, so don't hold out! Thanks so much for your patience.

If Prowl’s mind was order, Red Alert’s was chaos. Or, at least, it appeared that way to Ratchet, who found himself lacking the confidence he’d had when he dove into Prowl’s processor. He seemed small, and felt somewhat powerless in the face of two of the Autobot’s most high-speed processors entering open combat.

Ratchet had to say he preferred Prowl’s mind to Red Alert’s, though, from his perspective. It had been easier to exist in it, even if it had been enigmatic and nebulous to actually conduct repairs on. A dark ocean, calm and collected even in the absence of the memories and datafiles that allowed cohesion of thought. 

Red Alert’s mind looked like Cybertron itself, currently at war, fires springing up and spreading as entire blocks were shuffled about and flipped, buried, replaced, reconfigured to be examined from different angles, like Red Alert was shaking his own mind, hoping the infiltrator would fall out. But Ratchet knew, even as agitated as things currently looked, this wasn’t much far off from Red Alert’s natural state -- maybe slightly more frantic, slightly more on fire, but no less manic. 

Ratchet felt nauseated looking or reading or thinking about the shifting landscape. He couldn’t imagine living with the amount of hyper-activity and over-rendering that Red Alert constantly lived with. It was no wonder the poor mech’s head was always overheating and why he was so prone to fits and outbursts. It had to be impossible to see anything clearly in all the patterns and rotations, like trying to read a book when several others were typed over top of it. 

“Ratchet,” Prowl was not really coherent as a shape or a form in Red Alert’s mindscape, but his voice rang clear from wherever he was hiding.

“I’m going to find Red Alert and keep an eye on him while you work. I have a shared memory with him in Polyhex I think I can draw him into,” Ratchet addressed the tactician, who seemed far away -- not literally, but emotionally. Prowl did not want his own mind to be seen while he searched Red Alert’s, and Ratchet supported the separation. As much as digging through someone’s mind should not be a purely categorical affair, Prowl’s trauma would be intolerable for Red Alert. 

“Alright. I will try to leave the block you are in for last. You can monitor Red Alert’s condition and let me know if he reacts to anything,” Prowl said from the moon or the hole that he was hiding in or somewhere beyond. 

“I will,” Ratchet replied before stepping down into rotating, burning Polyhex. 

 

Polyhex was where Ratchet had first met Red Alert.

The memory came together beneath his feet, Polyhex forming and deforming, reconciling itself between Ratchet’s memory and Red Alert’s. Ratchet remembered it had been a bright day, weirdly incongruous with the carnage and the smell of burning energon. He remembered the ground being sticky with coolant and hydraulic fluid, how that and dried energon clung to his plating so thoroughly that his medical insignias were almost obscured. It didn’t matter, though -- being coated in so much viscera demarcated his function as surely as his badge did. 

Red Alert remembered it slightly differently. It seemed darker, the fire brighter, the sound of seekers barreling overhead dropping bombs even louder, an assault on a sensitive sensory suite in and of itself. Ratchet stumbled across the field, trying to remember the particulars. Dead autobots everywhere, few dead Decepticons. In his memory only a few of them had faces, he’d not looked or he’d blotted the rest out and wasn’t willing to try to dig them up at the moment, so the bodies were more like concepts of bodies than physical objects. He shuttered his optics against another bomb blast that felt like a mundane experience, one of thousands, and dropped down into a hole carved into the landscape by the explosives, where he found Red Alert, hunched up over his rifle and trembling. 

“Red,” Ratchet said, reaching out and touching the mech’s shoulder. Red Alert flinched, shuttering his optics tighter. “You were the eighteenth person I found still alive on this field, you know. The only one that lived,” Ratchet said to him. Red Alert nodded, refusing to look up as two more seekers barreled overhead, chased hopelessly by the larger and angrier Skyfire, who was desperately trying to buy the cover the handful of remaining Autobots needed to retreat. 

“Reinforcements aren’t coming,” Red Alert mumbled into his chassis. Ratchet looked down at him -- missing a leg, badly sparking at the joint. Not a clean sever, it would be hard to replace. It had been hard to replace. Red Alert had spent a good deal of time waiting, alone in makeshift medical pavilions and barracks, shuffled around more like cargo or an item on a to-do list than like a patient. It had taken so long they’d started assigning him inventory tasks, it was part of how he had transitioned back into a support role.

“No. We were abandoned. I came back to try to find survivors, and Skyfire disobeyed orders to try to help everyone still trapped escape. I think he probably saved, what. A dozen?” 

“Out of two hundred,” Red Alert nods. Ratchet sits and nods as the sounds of the bombings started to dim as Red Alert slowly calmed, recognizing the replay for the memory it was.

“You were a -- a foot soldier. You’d been conscripted by the council,” Ratchet said out loud, trying to reconstruct the situation. “I was a high ranking medical officer, but we’d lost most of our command structure at this point, so I was -- alone. I came back here because I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” 

“Yes, I had worked as a customs official and then as a quartermaster. This was my first and last frontline assignment,” Red Alert agreed. 

“I was a conscientious objector,” Ratchet laughed. “I wanted to save lives, not take them. But this…” he looked around, trailing off as the smile faded from his face. “This was the last battle I didn’t bring a gun to.” Red Alert looked up.

“I didn’t know that,” he said. “I thought you had lost your rifle somehow.” Ratchet shook his head. 

“No, I didn’t have any weapons. Just a lot of armour and medical supplies,” he said. “I carry pistols, now, but I -- still haven’t used them on anyone, really. I’m not sure why I started carrying them. I was afraid, I guess,” Ratchet confessed. 

“This was when the war really changed,” Red Alert said, looking up. “Before Polyhex it was a rebellion. The Decepticons were fighting the senate because the senate treated them poorly and they wanted more power, more rights,” he explained. “I -- don’t necessarily disagree with that. But after this -- this battle. Sentinel Prime was dead, the council was all but gone, and our command structure was in pieces. But they just kept killing  _ everyone _ .”

“I never knew you were a Decepticon sympathizer, Red,” Ratchet chuckled. 

“Well -- I mean -- the senate was bad! The council wasn’t really  _ better _ ,” Red Alert said. “It still had most of the same members, and the members were the problem!” 

“You’re not wrong, you’re not wrong!” Ratchet laughed, simulating patting the flustered Red Alert on the shoulder. “I’m just teasing you. Why did you join the Autobots, then?” 

“Because I didn’t like Megatron’s, er, other policies,” Red Alert said, biting a servo. Ratchet sobered somewhat, nodding. “You?” 

“Similar reasons. There were chances to get rid of the senate peacefully -- real chances, not hypotheticals. Optimus, back before he was prime, had a real opportunity for peaceful -- if still radical -- reform, and Megatron threw it in his face in pursuit of his own power. And then there was, you know, the whole poisoning of Cybertron’s core with dark energon and the dedication to destroying non-mechanical life and the tyranny and wanton murder and destruction,” Ratchet shrugged. “But you’re right. Polyhex did change the way I looked at the war,” he said, reaching down to absent-mindedly apply or imagine applying an anti-static patch to Red Alert’s missing leg, just in case the memory of the pain was bothering him. 

“I stopped thinking of it as a -- you know, a squabble. The scale of it was never a squabble but it felt like something that would be over sooner than later and would end with bilateral agreements,” Ratchet continued. “After Polyhex it became clear to me the war was only going to end for the Decepticons when all of us were dead or in forced labour camps.” 

“That’s ironic, isn’t it?” Red Alert asked. “Decepticons who were workers or disgruntled military left over from the last war turning around and forcing Autobots to work in even worse conditions. I don’t get it,” Red Alert said, rubbing the sore leg as the memory continued to get dimmer and dimmer. Red Alert rubbed his face a bit, and vaguely Ratchet could sense tumultuous movement around them -- the memory they were in becoming less Red Alert’s and more Ratchet’s as Red Alert drifted into a more abstract train of thought. And as the scenery dwindled, Prowl became somehow visible, his immense processor combing through the buildings, rearranging every room and hallway, rotating and splitting and prying apart at the seams, folding and compressing and isolating the examined chunks into orderly grids. 

“It wasn’t really about that, for Megatron,” Ratchet said, pulling away from the distraction, trying to pull parts of his memory into focus -- he picked up Red Alert as Skyfire barreled past them again, he had carried him off the field in his arms, the terrain too rough to drive on. “It was about him being right at the expense of everyone else. Maybe he started off with good intentions. Maybe he’s the product of our negligence as a society, but that doesn’t absolve him of all of this,” he said. “The millions dead, our home ruined, and the -- the sheer mental trauma,” Ratchet said, finding his steps faltering as his experience of Prowl’s memory clawd at the edges of his mind. He felt so  _ thin _ and Red Alert was going to slip out of his arms. “The -- nightmares. The people I don’t see anymore. I think my spark is broken,” he said, faltering, feet sticking to the ground and passing through it as it forgot how to be ground and Ratchet’s feet forgot how to be feet. 

“Ratchet,” Red Alert said, tugging on him. “Stay with me, here -- I -- do you remember that time that Wheeljack -- while I was still in medbay, you were there, and he would come in during the shift you were supposed to recharge and he’d make us play cards?” 

“Yes, I do,” Ratchet mumbled as the scene formed around them. Sitting at his desk, feeling too tired to be angry at the distraction as Wheeljack dealt out the cards. There wasn’t enough light so he used his helm fins and Ratchet used his headlights. Wheeljack, also exhausted to the point of delirium, insisted on playing  _ just one more hand _ before he recharged,  _ no no, that one was too short, one more, then I promise _ . 

“I was the only one well rested. The two of you were so tired you couldn’t remember whose turn it was,” Red Alert said. “You fell asleep on your cards, and when you sat up, they were stuck to your face, I remember.” 

“Were they? I don’t recall, honestly,” Ratchet said. “Who won?” 

“I did,” Red Alert replied. Ratchet could see the cards in his hands, and he absent mindedly threw one at Red Alert’s memory of Wheeljack, because that seemed to fit. 

“Did I throw cards at you?” 

“Yeah. You didn’t really want to play. You were just humouring Wheeljack, I think,” Red Alert explained. “Honestly, I’m not sure why. Both of you needed to recharge.” 

“We never got to spend any time together unless we forced ourselves to stay awake,” Ratchet explained. “It wasn’t the healthiest option, but I justified it as improving morale. You were conveniently there to provide an extra excuse of providing a positive recovery environment,” Ratchet said somewhat sarcastically. “Though I don’t know how that went over if I was throwing cards at you.” 

“It was nice to feel included,” Red Alert offered hopefully, nodding. Then he grew distant, gazing up at the ceiling -- he could hear a knocking noise, like footsteps. “I can hear Prowl,” he murmured. 

“Yes, I can sense him too. He must be close to done,” Ratchet said as they sat in the dark. 

“It’s funny,” Red Alert said. “I thought this would be more uncomfortable, somehow. That I’d be able to feel him rummaging around. That it would hurt.” 

“You’re not using most of your processor right now, is why,” Ratchet replied. “You and I -- we’re speaking quite intimately, at the moment.” He collected all the cards back into the deck and held it in front of Red Alert. “Our comprehension doesn’t necessarily require actual speech or any kind of external stimuli -- so all the parts of your processor dedicated to that, like aural centers and optical cortex and equilibrium, etcetera, aren’t functioning,” he said, taking about a quarter of the deck and setting it aside for an absent Prowl. “You also don’t need most of your memory unless you’re actively recalling it, you can use just a very small amount of short-term buffer to preserve your sense of continuity most of the time,” he added, taking a little less than half of the remaining deck and dealing it to the empty chair, so that only about a third of the original deck remained. “You’ve got all your essential functions still running -- energon and cooling, spark support -- but your secondary functions related to navigating the physical world are shut down,” Ratchet handed off more cards to Prowl. At this point few cards remained. “And I am specifically using this memory and myself as a decoy to keep you from concentrating on and assisting your security suite,” he added, throwing out more cards. “So really, that leaves you with the vehicle of your consciousness -- your  _ real self _ is thought to reside in your spark, whereas your processor provides a vehicle of expression for it -- a small buffer continuity data, your emotional cortex, a small piece of your logic systems, and the memory we are currently occupying. That’s about it,” Ratchet concluded, dealing out the remaining five cards to Red Alert. 

“That’s ten percent of the deck Prowl’s not going to search?” Red Alert frowned, looking at the hand he’d been dealt. 

“I’m examining all of those things right now,” Ratchet replied, gesturing around them. Red Alert frowned. 

“Why not Prowl? He’d be more thorough,” he complained. Ratchet tilted his head in an expression somewhere between insult and confusion, throwing up his hands. 

“I’m being perfectly thorough! Plus, tampering with these components -- wouldn’t produce the effect that the saboteur has been having on you.” 

“I’ve been maintaining continuity without memory, though  --” Red Alert began. 

“That’s not how that data works. The fact that you’re unaware of the time loss just means the algorithm or the mnemnosurgeon is a good editor and is tricking you into thinking you have continuity where you don’t, but the affected continuity data would have all been turned into proper memory by now anyways. It may have affected past continuity data, but it’s not affecting that data now, not without a trigger,” Ratchet said. 

“But it could affect it in the future!” Red Alert complained. 

“Only if we don’t catch it. Point is, if it’s a virus, it’s not in that now, because it’s a totally new dataset. If it’s a mnemnosurgeon, we won’t see the damage there, and that’s that,” Ratchet snapped. Red Alert sat back in the chair, sulking somewhat. 

“I trust you to do it,” he mumbled. “I just -- want to be thorough.” 

“Prowl’s got his own reasons, too. This kind of operation can be invasive for him as well,” Ratchet sighed, picking up the deck of cards again and fiddling with them. “He’s gone through a lot of trauma, and he doesn’t want to expose you.” 

“Oh…” Red Alert trailed off. “Is it -- my fault?” 

“What?” 

“My fault,” Red Alert said. “If I hadn’t been compromised, Prowl wouldn’t be compromised.” 

“That kind of guilt is natural to feel in a situation like this,” Ratchet said. “But it’s stupid. It’s not your fault. You didn’t act of your own volition, so it’s impossible for you to be at fault.” 

“If I’d had more secure security --” Red Alert began but Ratchet held up a finger, wagging it. 

“Bup bup bup -- no. This could have happened to anyone. The fact that it was you only speaks to the maliciousness of the person who did it, not on a failure on your part. This was, as I’m sure Prowl would agree, unpredictable.” 

“I don’t know how I’m going to apologize, or say thank you,” Red Alert muttered. “I feel terrible. Say what you want, I’m the security director, and I’m also our biggest security breach. I don’t know how someone can fail at their job more than that.” 

“Well then you can either wallow in self-pity or try to make amends,” Ratchet replied tersely. Then he sighed. “Sorry. Just -- try not to obsess. Move forward from this, that’s all I can offer, I guess.” 

“Easier said than done,” Red Alert replied sullenly. 

The knocking became more pronounced, and Ratchet and Red Alert both turned to look at a door that seemed to appear. 

“I guess Prowl’s ready for us,” Ratchet said, standing and offering Red Alert a hand. “Let’s not keep him waiting.” 

 


	21. 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY EVERYONE....IT'S BEEN A FEW MONTHS! I was away for a long time then terribly busy playing catch up after I got back, so this has been taking a back seat to a lot of my other stuff because it's hard to write it! As in it takes up a lot of brainspace. I'm sorry this update is a little short, this bit here was a bit of a hurdle for me mentally, but I wanted to get ya'll somethin' as soon as I reached a good break. Hopefully things will go more smoothly for the next few updates, but I make no promises on being quick with 'em. I DO intend to finish this sucker, so no worries on never reading the end of it, haha. It might just be a while as other projects ramp up here. Thanks so much for sticking around, I'm real sorry it took so long!

Prowl felt like a moon with a massive hole in it. He orbited Red Alert’s mind, pulling it into chunks and stretching them out and passing them through the vacuous gap that he had made in his own processor, analyzing each strand for signs of a virus or tampering before reassembling things bit by bit on the other side. 

It hurt. Red Alert’s security suite couldn’t stop him, but it was like barbed wire, scraping and burning angry lines across the surface of his islands. But the scabs were thick, and Prowl continued his work, even though his head and his spark ached. He tugged a piece from near the burning core of Red Alert’s security suite, a block that stretched and crumbled, burning itself away in his hands. 

And then, it hit. A hard electric thrum reverberated through his processor and down to his spark, all the world suspended in the air while he held in his vents. Then the sense seemed to snap. A red line stretched from the planet’s core and through the center of his hollow moon, anchoring itself in the space behind his optics, burning a line of plasma to the very core of his being. The pain knocked him out of any loose sense of a body he had -- everything else was a void as the virus latched to every memory of pain he had and tried to smother him with it. 

But this was a game Prowl had already played, and he knew how to win it this time. He gripped the line of sick and thorny code and pulled it from his processor, pursuing when it threatened to snap and hide itself deep in the burning core of Red Alert’s mind. Prowl wedged himself through what felt like impossibly small cracks, followed directories and pathways like water flowing through magma -- at every moment Red Alert’s security suite threatened to evaporate him, but ironically, the virus’s own defense protected Prowl as he pursued. He flooded Red Alert’s chaotic security suite with his own -- methodical and adaptative and backed by a whole weeping ocean. 

And there, at the center of Red Alert’s security suite sat the virus, hiding within an egg of Red Alert’s own burning code. Of course it would be here -- Red Alert’s security suite was chaos, that was part of why it was usually so effective. It could turn over Red Alert’s entire mind, burning through blocks of memory and logic in frantic pursuit of incursion with little thought to the damage it itself caused. But it could never completely destroy itself -- a piece to rebuild the suite always remained to protect it from its self-interrogation. The virus had learned how to predict which piece of the suite would become this essential seed, and hidden itself there, repopulating alongside Red Alert’s own code.

Prowl encased the egg in his own security, quarantining it, hovering around it and trying to identify who had made it. It was, he had to admit, terribly clever -- but it was also tailored specifically to Red Alert’s security suite. Whoever made it had to have some knowledge of how it worked -- but Prowl had no idea how available that information was. It was probably something known to Red Alert’s doctors, but would Ratchet put such detail in a medical file? Had there been doctors before the war who would have documented something like this? 

Prowl took a moment to center himself. The answer was right here in front of him, but in order to get it, he would have to expose himself to the virus. Ratchet would, wisely, protest at this risk -- but Prowl was less concerned. 

“You’re not made for me,” he murmured as he dug his fingers into the burning code. Red Alert’s security suite stabbed into him as he pulled it apart, but water poured in to sooth the wounds. Prowl gripped the virus in his hands, raking at the code, untangling and trying to lay it out so he could examine it -- find a signature, some maker’s mark or a telltale sign -- 

The virus was not idle to his examination, however. It writhed and contracted, amassing itself and thrusting out lines of code like so many hooks, clawing its way back up his arm towards his processor, trying to adapt and find a new vector to infect him. It battered itself against Prowl’s firewalls and quarantines, looking for the chink in the armour -- 

 

Red Alert felt uncertain as Ratchet moved to open the door. He could feel, vaguely, an itching in the back of his processor -- a scratch that was the familiar sense of his security suite bristling, reconstructing, growing. When Red Alert’s mind decided to destroy a threat, it did not take half measures. Due to a unique and delicate combination of hard and software damage from a malignant virus contracted early in his life, Red Alert’s security suite had over-developed -- and become almost virus-like itself. It repopulated itself from fragments of its own code and had a strong scorched earth policy regarding other invaders. If it ever lost a battle with a virus, Red Alert was more than certain the thing that would really destroy his processor was his own security suite, not the invader, which was part of what made this situation so uncomfortable. 

Ratchet opened the door, and some kind of hollow image of Prowl was there -- like a glass shaped sort of like a mech holding some of the water that was the way Prowl’s mind seemed to manifest. 

“Prowl?” Ratchet asked cautiously. The Prowl envoy looked at him. 

“I found it,” he said. “In the seed file for the security suite.” 

“Of course,” Red Alert murmured. 

“You -- quarantined it?” Ratchet asked. 

“Yes, but I am also -- exposed,” Prowl said, strained. “Trapped in replay.” 

“It’s accessing your memory?” Ratchet asked, concerned. 

“I had a dream that I was climbing a mountain on a blue planet, far away. My legs were too heavy. I was the only one left,” Prowl said suddenly, looking down. “I was -- all alone. No one left who knew me, but still people to protect. A war to win. I climbed to the top of the mountain and I gave up my spark to power a -- machine, that would keep everyone safe, somehow. I was dead, but there was no one to show me where to go,” Prowl continued. 

“I don’t understand what this means,” Ratchet said. 

“I -- was trapped, but I was at rest,” Prowl explained. “I stepped outside of time.” 

“I understand,” Red Alert said, standing and approaching the door. 

“I don’t,” Ratchet complained. 

“It’s the memory the virus is using to attack Prowl. It wants him to surrender by convincing him he can rest,” Red Alert explained.  “It’s going after the weakest link.”

“His spark,” Ratchet murmured mournfully. Prowl looked back up at him, every moment seeming like less of himself. Ratchet reached forward to touch him on the shoulder, but hesitated. Red Alert looked at him, and then stepped forward. 

“You can’t stop, Prowl. You will never be able to stop,” Red Alert said. “Not until the war is really over. Not until every Decepticon or every Autobot is dead.” 

“Red Alert,” Ratchet murmured. 

“No, Ratchet. It’s true. All of us are ruined. Fighting and winning this war is all we’re good for. And we  _ will _ win. Even if there’ll never be peace in our sparks or our processors ever again, at the very least we’ll be able to ensure the generation after us doesn’t have to go through what we did. What we still go through. Will always go through even if it’s just in our heads, right up until we’re snuffed out. Maybe even after. Who knows,” Red Alert jabbed a servo into Prowl’s chassis. Prowl, seeming smaller than before but more solid, looked up at him hopelessly. 

“You will never,  _ ever _ get to rest. Every peaceful moment will be haunted by the possibility of violence. That’s what we are now,” Red Alert continued. He could feel his security suite rumbling in the back of his mind like so much magma underground. 

“Prowl,” Ratchet interjected, dropping to his knees and holding the increasingly hopeless Prowl by the shoulders, “did you find the name? Who made the virus?” 

“I can see him, yes,” Prowl said weakly, averting his gaze.  

“Who?” 

“Who else?” Prowl asked bitterly. “I still see him whenever I shut my eyes, just like Red Alert says. Shockwave made this virus.”

“Makes sense,” Red Alert nodded. 

“But he doesn’t administrate it. There is more than one person authorized to trigger the code,” Prowl explained.

“Who?” Ratchet asked. 

“Someone he knew. Someone who doesn’t see the war, has always thrown mechs into the grinder for his own profit,” Prowl grimaced, reaching into his own chassis and pulling out the small, writhing root, the last vestige of the virus. “High enough to operate without much scrutiny. Decimus.” 

Ratchet reached out and ran a hand over the virus, eradicating its code in an instant, as if it had never been. Red Alert stood and stared, emanating a sense of shock that seemed to pause everything around them like a drop of water exiting a pool. Prowl, desperately small and rough around the edges, stared at the ground and trembled in a way that made him seem terribly vulnerable. For Ratchet the most surprising thing was his lack of shock. 

“We’ll do one last sweep, Prowl and I. Make sure the virus is all gone. Then we’ll disconnect and tell Jazz,” he said quietly, reaching out a hand for Prowl’s. 

“Okay,” Prowl took it like a shamed youngling. 

“Decimus,” Red Alert said dumbly. “Decimus.” 

“We’ll -- all talk afterwards,” Ratchet said. “Red?” 

“D -- yes?” Red Alert seemed disparate. “Yes, I heard you. Go scan.” 

Ratchet looked once more over at Red Alert, then lead Prowl away, both of them as small as they had ever been. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S I get psyched about comments so if you leave one maybe I'll get at it faster ;o <3 <3 <3


	22. 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof as ever sorry for the long wait on updates on this sucker. I'm super busy with about 5 other big projects that are all very creative, so even when I got time, I don't often got the juice to work on fic lately! That said, I do still intend to finish this, and I know where it's going, IT JUST MIGHT BE A WHILE. Here's a very fluffy chapter to tide you over! Thanks so much for being patient.

Bluestreak intentionally tuned out most of what went on around him in the following days: the less he knew, the less he could compromise Prowl’s plans if he accidentally ran his mouth too far. He mostly knew that Prowl was getting better, that he slept almost constantly, and his constant sleeping made Bluestreak want to constantly sleep. Prowl was still so weak, and after burning what little energy he could muster in a day, there was nothing he could do to stave off recharge.

“Hey, Bluestreak,” a soft voice in the dark of Ratchet’s habsuite. Bluestreak looked up, but only spotted Mirage when the light speeder disengaged his cloak, like tiles of a mosaic falling slowly into place. “Prowl asleep?”

“Yeah, but don’t worry, you couldn’t wake him if you tried,” Bluestreak whispered back. Mirage chuckled, then crawled onto the berth with them, wrapping one arm gently around Prowl and settling in close enough that he could rest his head on Bluestreak’s shoulder. 

“You think this really helps?” He asked. Bluestreak tilted a dooring in a shrug.

“Ratchet said being close to a stable spark would help Prowl’s stop - wobbling so much, through the resonance, so. Ratchet doesn’t do mumbo jumbo.”

“That’s true, but he does trick his patients sometimes. Maybe he just wants to give us all an excuse to snuggle,” Mirage teased.

“Why?” Bluestreak asked, bonking his head lightly against Mirage’s.

“You and Prowl both need a lot of emotional support right now.”

“Maybe  _ you _ just need emotional support,” Bluestreak parroted back. 

“I’m not ashamed to admit I am taking advantage of your vulnerability to express a little of my own,” Mirage replied. “Though that phrasing certainly makes me sound parasitic, doesn’t it?” 

“Yeah, but it’s, uh, what’s the word. The non mean parasite. The -- symbiosis. Mu...mutually beneficial parasitism,” Bluestreak tried to explain. Mirage laughed, lifting a hand to cover his mouth and bumping Prowl with his elbow in the process. 

“Oh!” Mirage gasped, then paused. “Oh,” he repeated more quietly. Bluestreak tilted his head and Mirage leaned down a bit, and both sat quietly. Prowl tensed, made a face, then turned his head very slightly, never waking up. 

“Wow. He’s quite asleep,” Mirage commented. 

“He’s so tired. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so tired,” Bluestreak adjusted slightly to hold Prowl a little more securely, causing Mirage to shift as well, resting his head on top of Prowl’s instead. 

“You know it’s funny,” Mirage whispered after a moment. “I don’t think I ever recharged with more than one person before the war, but I do it all the time, now.” 

“What, you never had a -- had a -- sleepover or anything when you were little? I thought somebody fancy like you would have -- have them all the time,” Bluestreak stumbled through his sentence as recharge beckoned. 

“No, I was a little too stuck up for that,” Mirage replied quietly. “You lose a lot of things during a war. Bad things too, sometimes.” 

“Gotta think positive,” Bluestreak grumbled. “Dunno what I’ve got left. You heard about -- do you know how the plan is going?” he asked suddenly. 

“Jazz and Red Alert are working on compiling a list of everyone involved and of all of Decimus’s mechs, routing him out of essential intel bit by bit and isolating his assets for seizure. They have to work slowly and carefully. If they’re caught before we’re ready to spring the net, Decimus could do a lot of damage,” Mirage whispered into the back of Prowl’s helm. 

“When is -- when will Prowl be able to get fixed? Get out of here?” Bluestreak twitched a wing around the room. 

“Ratchet is making all the parts he can without drawing attention to what he’s doing. No one can know Prowl is back until we’re ready to trap Decimus,” Mirage explained.

“Using Prowl as bait?” 

“Bluestreak…”

Prowl tensed, suddenly, trying to sit up against both Bluestreak and Mirage’s arms. His doorwings twitched, and he raised his hands towards his chassis, a strained strand of static escaping from his vocalizer. 

“Prowl,” Bluestreak gently shook his brother. 

“Shh, shh,” Mirage took Prowl’s hands as he started prying at his chest, scratching paint away. 

“Prowl, wake up,” Bluestreak said. Prowl kicked, straining against Mirage and Bluestreak, who held him securely but not tightly. 

“Prowl, you’re safe,” Mirage said. Bluestreak abruptly reached over and pinched the joint of Prowl’s doorwing, which immediately made his optics snap open as he sucked in a sharp intake. He looked around a bit, then up at Bluestreak. 

“ _ Ow _ ,” he said. 

“You were having a nightmare,” Bluestreak explained, flopping his head back.

“Are you okay? Should we get Ratchet?” Mirage asked. Prowl looked up, surprised.

“Mirage?” 

“I couldn’t recharge, so I came to give you a little spark support,” Mirage winked. 

“Ah. I see,” Prowl replied, regaining some composure and relaxing a bit. “I don’t need Ratchet at the moment. Some energon, though, would be appreciated.” 

“Alright,” Mirage said, moving to get up when the door opened and Jazz stepped in. 

“Oh, what’s going on in here?” Jazz asked. 

“Sleepover,” Bluestreak mumbled. 

“Ohhh, can I come?” Jazz asked. 

“Only if you bring us medical grade energon,” Mirage replied, settling back in. Prowl was already almost asleep again. 

“Sure, sure,” Jazz said, stopping by a cupboard where Ratchet had left some rations. He handed Mirage the cube, then crawled onto the far end of the berth so he could get around to the other side of Bluestreak. He squirmed in, lifting Prowl’s legs and putting them over his own like a blanket and leaning against the wall. 

Mirage tried to hand the cube to Prowl, but he fumbled with it and nearly dropped it, so the spy carefully held it up for him. Prowl drank about half of it before pushing it away. 

“So bitter,” he complained. “Thank you.” 

“How are you feeling, mech?” Jazz asked. 

“I’ll live,” Prowl replied. “I am looking forward to being repaired.” 

“Should I comm Ironhide? And Ratchet? For our little sleepover?” Mirage teased. 

“Hound’d come, if he’s off shift,” Jazz grinned. 

“Oh, I’d  _ love _ for Hound to come,” Mirage settled back in alongside Prowl. 

“I don’t think it’s wise to have everyone here all at once,” Prowl murmured, optics already half-shut. Mirage sighed. 

“You’re right,” he complained. “Why are you here, Jazz?” 

“It can wait,” Jazz replied. “Looks like everybody here needs some rest. I’m not opposed to a nap myself.” 

“No, tell us,” Bluestreak leaned his head back. “I’m tired of hiding out in here.” 

“You can leave,” Mirage pointed out helpfully. 

“I don’t wanna,” Bluestreak replied. 

“So you want to leave but you don’t want to leave,” Jazz iterated. 

“Yes,” Bluestreak nodded. 

“Makes sense,” Prowl agreed. 

“No. It doesn’t. But okay,” Jazz shrugged. 

“Give us a report,” Bluestreak grumbled. 

“Yeah, storytime with Jazz,” Mirage patted Prowl on the chest. Prowl’s optics started to fade out, only to come back on full brightness as he struggled to fend off shutdown protocols. 

“Uh, alright. Red Alert and I are done with our list, so we just gotta narrow it down. Good news is it isn’t as big as we thought,” Jazz explained. “Decimus doesn’t have a big cadre. Most mechs don’t like him -- a lot of the ones who stick around, he pays.” 

“That’s dumb, you can’t buy extra rations,” Bluestreak whined. 

“You can. We have a bit of a black market problem on the base,” Mirage replied. “We uh. Let it happen, though. Hard not to. The devil you know, and all that.” 

“What! Terrible,” Bluestreak snorted. 

“Anyways,” Jazz interrupted. “Money does make ‘em easy to track. Also found gaps in the paperwork, looks like Decimus has a lot more assets than he ought to. Decepticons are probably paying him. Makes his motivation pretty clear,” Jazz replied. 

“He sold us out,” Bluestreak said dumbfoundedly. “What the frag. Are you kidding? Wow. I can’t believe it. How dumb do you have to be? How -- oogh. I’m too tired to be mad right now, but I’m really mad.” 

“Mm,” Prowl agreed quietly, optics officially offline. 

“Wake up, Prowl,” Mirage pinched his chevron. 

“Just resetting my optics,” Prowl replied. 

“Uh-huh,” Mirage snickered. 

“We didn’t find anybody who we could verify had a history of mnemnosurgery. It’s possible Decimus was doing that bit himself. As far as we know Red hasn’t been called for any check-ups, either, so we’re lucking out on that. Doesn’t know we’re on to him, but we need to start moving fast,” Jazz said. 

“What’s the plan?” Bluestreak asked. 

“Complicated,” Prowl replied. 

“It’s not that complicated.” 

“I’m tired. I don’t want to explain it right now,” Prowl crossed his arms over his chassis and leaned back into Bluestreak. Mirage patted his head. 

“We’ll tell you what you need to know if you need to know it, Blue,” Jazz said. Bluestreak grumbled. 

“Fiiiiinnneee,” Bluestreak whined. “Tell me a story, then.” 

“A story,” Jazz said. 

“Storytiiimmee,” Mirage cheered. Prowl had already slipped back offline when the lights suddenly flicked on, and Ratchet was standing at the door. 

“Storytime?” he asked. 

“Ooogh, Ratchet, turn those off,” Mirage complained, pressing his face into Prowl’s helm. 

“Why are you  _ all _ in here?” Ratchet asked, flicking the lights back off. 

“Why are  _ you _ in here,” Bluestreak grumbled. 

“I live here. You may have forgotten, but this is my room.” 

“Oh...right.” 

“We’re having a sleepover,” Mirage explained. 

“Uh-huh. Well, I need Prowl.” 

“Aww, why?” Jazz asked. “He’s sleeping. Everyone’s so comfy.” 

“I’m ready to start downscaling him.” 

Everyone was quiet for a moment. 

“That was fast,” Mirage said. “I thought it’d take you weeks.” 

“I put the order through normal channels. It’s not strange right now for us to be manufacturing parts for badly injured praxians.” 

“Ah.” Jazz nodded. “Still. Why don’t you come take a quick power nap. You gotta be tired too, huh, docbot?” 

“You do all look very comfortable,” Ratchet admitted. 

“Sooooooooo comfortable,” Bluestreak already had his optics offline. 

“Shh…tiny Prowl is dreaming…it would be so cruel to wake him,” Mirage snuggled in closer. Jazz patted a spot next to himself and, with some griping, Ratchet settled in beside him, holding Prowl’s numb feet in his lap. Bluestreak nodded off shortly after, followed by Mirage. Jazz sat and held Prowl’s legs while Ratchet leaned back against the wall, venting. 

“They’re all very cute,” Jazz murmured to the medic, who looked down over them. 

“Too cute. It’s horrible,” Ratchet groused. Jazz snickered. 

“You’re just grumpy because you got stuck at the feet,” Jazz whispered back. 

“Am not,” Ratchet snorted indignantly, but then smiled. “I hope the Ark is like this.” 

“Just a buncha big piles of recharging mechs?” Jazz asked. 

“No -- just quiet. With space to grieve.” 

“Is this grief?” 

“Isn’t it? It’s happy, but I’m also sad,” Ratchet murmured, looking at Bluestreak holding tightly onto his brother, even in his sleep. “So sad. Like seeing something sweet like this just -- makes it all rise to the surface and seep out. And it aches, but I know there will be less of it to carry around after.” 

“That’s a nicer way of seeing it I guess. Just makes me anxious,” Jazz frowned. “Knowing we still have moments like this reminds me we’ve still got something to lose.” 

 


	23. 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! LONG TIME NO SEE....I decided to just wrap this whole fic up and post the end all at once, since we weren't far away, but hoo boy....so busy! It took me a lot longer than I wanted. I haven't proofread this so there will be errors, I'm sorrrrryyyyy!!

The world had gotten too big for Prowl. His hands fit again, and the ground felt solid underneath his feet, but the shaving of a sixth of his entire mass made him feel vulnerable, even though Ratchet had added combat armour to his chassis. Ratchet had made many adjustments - Prowl was more streamlined than before, sharper edges replaced with protective curves, damaged circuits rewired and cooling systems more effectively routed. The changes were small but omnipresent: Ratchet knew Prowl felt his body was no longer his, so he had endeavoured to remake it. 

Prowl wasn’t sure about his success yet. He felt  _ better _ , but he didn’t know if a new set of circuits was going to erase the venomous feeling in his spark. But he did know that the world felt too big, that mechs he had once stood eye to eye with would now look down on him, and that he no longer fit right in a desk chair.

“Things are moving fast,” Mirage was saying to him as Prowl hugged close to the spy to stay in his cloak. “We isolated Decimus’s men and we’ve had as many of them as we can moved off the base under various orders. Easy enough with this last fuel rush. But we gotta get you to Optimus and we gotta get him on Decimus before things go really south,” Mirage continued.

“We shouldn’t be worried about this,” Prowl replied in a tight whisper. “We need to be preparing to launch the Ark.”

“We can’t leave a snake behind with the mechs in the stasis shelters, and we can’t take him with us,” Mirage hissed back as they rounded a corner towards the tactical center.

“Then - kill him as an - enemy spy,” Prowl stammered.

“Treason’s an executable crime. Prime’s the judge, let him make that call,” Mirage said.

“Optimus won’t kill a defenceless mech,” Prowl replied.

“And you would?”

“We can’t - waste - he’d starve to death in a prison here or - the cons would kill him - Decimus is going to either live and kill the bots in stasis for their energon or - die, and - it’s just a matter of how much time and energy we waste on him,” Prowl replied. “It’s not - perfect, but we’re desperate.”

“Practical of you,” Mirage chuckled. “You’re not wrong, though. Maybe Decimus will make it easy and pull a gun on us when we confront him.” 

“Now who’s practical,” Prowl grumbled. 

“Desperate,” Mirage replied as they rounded the corner and slipped unseen into the command center.

Optimus stood with Jazz, who was holding his hands up to appease the larger mech. No one else was present -- Jazz had promised a clear room, and it seemed he had delivered. 

“We just need a few minutes, OP,” Jazz said.

“We have little time, Jazz. I must attend to resecuring the perimeter in preparation for our launch,” Optimus replied.

“Optimus, I think I have someone you’ll be glad to see,” Mirage said as he materialized. Optimus looked over, frowning behind his faceplate, but his expression softened into one of surprise as he saw Prowl.

“Prowl -- where have you --” 

“There is very little time,” Prowl said quickly. “We have a massive security breach that we have been working covertly to close. Decimus is a double agent. He sold me out to the Decepticons, and may be feeding them information about our defenses.” 

“What --” 

“We’ve got a few witnesses and enough evidence to warrant detaining him -- but the way things are…” Jazz held out his hands. 

“We don’t have the energon or personnel to spare on detaining someone,” Optimus finished grimly. 

They stood thoughtfully still and time ticked away like a hammer smashing the inside of Prowl’s head. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Prowl said. “Send him to the front line or detain him and bury him in stasis or kill him. We can’t take him with us and we have to  _ go _ ,” he grabbed Optimus by the arm, and felt further away from him than he had ever been. 

“I understand,” Optimus said. “Prowl, you and Jazz will deal with Decimus. Detain him and place him in stasis if you can, to await trial until we return to Cybertron. Mirage, you and I need to secure the perimeter and prepare for exodus.” 

“If we can’t detain him?” Jazz asked. 

“Then I assume it is because Decimus is resisting you, and that you will be forced to resort to self-defense,” Optimus said grimly. 

“Are you  _ sure _ ?” Mirage asked. 

“I’m not certain what you mean.” 

“Don’t mince words, Optimus. You’re authorizing someone’s death without trial,” Mirage said. “That’s a lot of weight to carry.” 

“I am not doing so. I’m authorizing my agents to use lethal force to defend themselves if they must. I trust that they will only do so as a  _ last resort _ ,” Optimus said firmly. 

“Of course, OP. I’m mad, but I’m not bloodthirsty,” Jazz said. 

“I understand,” Prowl replied. “We have no more time to debate. Let’s  _ go _ .” 

 

Shutting people into stasis pods was difficult. A lot of them didn’t want to go, and rightfully so: there was a chance that if no one ever came back, they’d dry out in the pods and extinguish, or that the rushed assembly would lead to some kind of error that would leave them exposed to the elements to wake up brittle and rusty. Others just wanted to keep fighting even though they were too damaged, others still wanted a place on the Ark that didn’t have room for them. Bluestreak had been relegated to securing pods as quickly as possible: deep underground, away from the sounds of shrieking seekers and explosions. 

“This is scary, eh?” Sideswipe was with him helping him secure pods, even though they both knew it would be better if they were out fighting. 

“Yeah,” Bluestreak agreed as he sealed another pod. “Glad I’m not going in one of these.” 

“Me too, me too,” Sideswipe nodded, shaking out his trembling servos. Like Bluestreak, Sideswipe was suffering from shell-shock, and even though he could have been useful  _ now _ , he was being sidelined to recover as much as possible before the final push. 

Bluestreak didn’t know if it was working. He did feel calmer, but it was hard to tell if the anxiety and terror was really draining or just waiting for the final drop.

“Is your brother okay?” Bluestreak asked quietly.

“Sunny’s fine. Out punching Decepticreeps or something. Just me that’s having a little breakdown,” Sideswipe joked. 

“Hey, me too,” Bluestreak said. “Gonna have to go through a lot of therapy on the Ark.” 

“Don’t we all,” Sideswipe shrugged. “If we make it onto the Ark at all.” 

“We’ll make it,” Bluestreak said. “Let’s go faster. We finish this, we get to go up and help sooner.” 

“Right, yeah, right,” Sideswipe agreed. 

 

Ratchet woke up in the dark, with a headache. 

He reached up to put his hand on his face, only to find that hand was pinned somewhere to his left by something heavy and metal. Experimentally, he moved the other arm: free enough to push whatever was on top of him off. It was heavy, though: how had something this heavy gotten on top of him?

“Hey, Ratchet? Ratchet, you okay?” Wheeljack was calling, somewhat anxious.

“Mmmrrhnh,” Ratchet grumbled as he continued to push a section of roof and some structural girder off of himself. Free, he sat and rubbed his head, and Wheeljack rushed over and started taking scans.

“You got quite a dent, huh?” he commented. “You okay?”

“What happened?” Ratchet asked, trying to scoot backwards away from the mess so he could find space to stand up. It was dark, too: only the emergency lighting was on, and Wheeljack’s glaring headfins. 

“Something above us got hit, or some kinda burrowing bomb. Part of the roof collapsed. We gotta get these last few patients out of here, load ‘em up on the Ark,” Wheeljack explained. 

“A bomb hit us?” Ratchet asked. “They got through the perimeter defenses?” 

“Metroplex is pretty much out of power ‘cos he’s pumped it all into the Ark, and so most of everything is shutting down. We gotta launch or they’re gonna slaughter us,” Wheeljack explained, pulling Ratchet up by the arm, which hurt. 

“How fast?”

“We gotta be on that thing  _ yesterday _ . We’re gonna be finishing systems while we take off,” Wheeljack replied, tugging Ratchet away from the debris while he hurried over to the remaining patients -- Powerglide and Bumblebee, who were both in the process of grabbing whatever medical equipment they could stuff into their subspace. Ratchet stumbled over to join them, grabbing whatever he could, before he started ushering them out.

“That’s enough, we have to go, we have to go,” Ratchet said through the fog of static that originated from the dent in his head. The pressure was thick, but Ratchet clung to an ebbing sense of clarity generated by the urgency of Wheeljack’s tone.

“Know you’re a little sore still Bee, but you mind helping Ratchet along? I think he got hit harder than he’ll admit,” Wheeljack said as he pulled Powerglide along. 

“Sure thing, Jack,” Bee said, grabbing Ratchet by the elbow like an elderly relative and they jogged out into the hall, klaxons sounding in the distance and the metal moaning in grief around them. Ratchet suddenly had a striking sense of anxiety: he would probably never return to Cybertron. Did he have everything he needed? Everyone he needed? He knew he kept everything of sentimental value on his person, but was it all still there? He staggered, desiring to check his pockets for the holodisc with the pictures of better times, the letters and last gifts from dead friends, unopened -- 

“Ratchet, come on,” Bee urged him. “What are you doing?” 

“I -- I don’t want to forget anything,” Ratchet said.

“No time for that, Docbot,” Bee replied, tugging him along. “You got everything. Everyone’s been packed for weeks. It’s all on the Ark or on  _ you _ ,” Bee assured him.

“I know but -- I know,” Ratchet said. 

“Let’s go!” Wheeljack yelled from somewhere ahead. “The emergency route’s clear, but we need to hurry! It might get hit any second!” 

“Right,” Ratchet shakily agreed as they entered the wider hallway, a road that lead directly to the Ark’s airlock. Ratchet chanced a single glance back over his shoulder, hands trembling, then shut his eyes and turned to leave. 

 

“Where in the pit did he get to?!” Jazz yelled over the smoke and the klaxons. Prowl coughed ash out of his intakes, watching it take to the air like small black flowers. 

“He had to have an escape plan if this happened,” Prowl said. “We need to find his exit.” 

“How?” Jazz said, hurrying over to him as they moved back under cover. The sky looked like it was on fire, shrieking Seekers in vicious combat with Jetfire and the handful of remaining friendly aerials who hadn’t yet been hunted down. They were terribly outnumbered, but Iacon had been well equipped to defend against aerial attacks. 

“The city exits are blocked,” Prowl said. “And Decimus hates being underground. He used to run a mining operation, and he always complained in meetings how being underground was where the -- the -- you know...the...grunts,” Prowl waved a hand as he looked for the word. 

“I get what you mean. So where’s he going, then?”

“He’s going to try to get on the Ark, that’s his only chance if he doesn’t run to the Decepticons, and if he does that, we won’t catch him anyways,” Prowl said. 

“But Red’s revoked his clearance. He  _ can’t _ get on,” Jazz said.

“He’ll try to sneak on. There’s an -- auxiliary panel for maintenance near the engines, you can access the cooling vents and into the ship from there,”

“You’d get fried if the engines fired, though,” Jazz said, transforming and taking off towards the nearest exposed evacuation tunnel as Prowl followed.

“Doesn’t matter, it’s his only way on. We’ll get him there,” Prowl replied. 

 

Mirage felt dizzy in a way he hadn’t felt dizzy in a long time. There were endless tasks: shuttling people and ammo and information around the Ark, desperately trying to help the engineers get the engines to fire up while running interference for a compromised communication network, trying to keep Optimus informed of where his troops were and what they were doing so he could order them into formation while also tracking the Decepticon troops -- 

It was like swimming in air. Somehow, Mirage kept going, kept doing, despite his footless state, the momentum of sheer panic and the demand of survival somehow keeping him and everyone else from slamming directly back down to the unforgiving earth. 

“Where are Prowl and Jazz?” someone was asking. It was Ironhide -- how had he even noticed the two were missing? There was so much  _ happening _ Mirage didn’t quite understand how even the seasoned soldier could notice an  _ unhappening.  _

“They’re meant to be finding our traitor,” Mirage replied as he was handed a box of fuses and other parts. 

“We’re gonna launch without ‘em if they’re not here, and I don’t know about you, but I’d sure as heck rather have Jazz and Prowl with us than without us,” Ironhide said.

“I have to take these to the engine room -- you ask up here if they’ve been seen, I’ll ask down there,” Mirage replied as he trotted away. 

“Roger,” Ironhide nodded his head and hurried off in the opposite direction. 

“Jazz Jazz Jazz Jazz Jazz Jazz Jazz,” Mirage hummed to himself as he jumped down a stairwell, landing lightly on spring-loaded feet. “Where in the pits of Kaon are you in all this?”

 

Prowl had regrets. He regretted not pursuing a career as a space bridge technician instead of following his build and becoming an enforcer, he regretted working too hard in school and the stress and burn out it had caused, and he regretted not eating more sweets when they were available. But currently, his number one regret was convincing Jazz not to enter the engine’s maintenance shaft instead of him: Prowl’s new build made him the smaller of the two, and being smaller meant he could maneuver the shaft faster and ensure that their wayward senator was not in it. 

The walls were shaking, and condensation made the narrow ladder Prowl was climbing up slippery. The occasional blast of hot air sent a chill through his struts as he braced for the possibility that the engines had started and the air was a prelude to being atomized by the heat. 

The communication network had become unreliable as well, so Prowl and Jazz had patched together a short-wave frequency between just the two of them -- but the signal strength was weak at best, and in the midst of some of the thickest metal on the ship, Prowl couldn’t hear anything. He would have to get at least two thirds of the way up the shaft to hear Jazz at all -- who was waiting in the engine room, where the shaft let out. 

Prowl kept his doorwings pressed and folded close to his back, and as another blast of hot air washed over him, he took a moment to bow his head against the rungs of the ladder and brace himself -- going as fast as possible made the most sense, but his spark was throbbing painfully and his head ached. He didn’t know where Bluestreak was, and his new struts and plating were too tight and felt like they would shear from all the trembling. 

A noise of metal clanking against metal made him look up just before something small and roughly gun-shaped banged into the ladder above him and bounced over his head. Somewhere not too far above through the misty condensation, he heard quiet swearing and scraping. 

Prowl winced, and shuttered his optics, before he continued up the ladder through another blast of hot air. As he got closer, he could see his target: Decimus, who was in the undignified position of trying to cram himself into one of the two side tunnels that led out of the cooling vent and into the engine room. Not to Prowl’s surprise, Decimus did not fit. 

Prowl hesitated on the ladder for a moment. There was something divinely comical about seeing the person responsible for so much torment stuck in a vent. The destruction of Praxus, Bluestreak’s breakdown, the slow dissolution of Prowl’s spark -- and here he was, legs kicking as he tried desperately and unsuccessfully to pull himself into the vent. It was, somehow, heartbreaking: a proper reckoning would maybe have provided some closure. Instead, it was this. 

“Decimus,” Prowl said. The movement above him ceased momentarily, then resumed as Decimus painfully extricated himself from the tunnel and looked down. 

“Prowl?” Decimus said, stunned. “Oh, thank goodness you’re here. My evacuation route was compromised and I needed to come up this way, and I need your help getting out of here,” Decimus quickly recovered, smoothing over his surprise with such ease that it made Prowl’s plating crawl. Prowl stared for a moment, then looked at the maintenance tunnel.

“I can’t help you,” Prowl said. “It’s not possible for you to fit. You will have to go back down,” Prowl explained. “You’re going to miss the launch.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Prowl. Surely with your impressive processor you can find a way to fit me through here,” Decimus said. 

“No, I can’t. There is nowhere for you to go, Decimus,” Prowl said. It was mostly true: Prowl could have removed all the senator’s limbs and dragged his head and torso through the tunnel to safety, but doing it without killing him would have taken too much time before the engines fired.

<Prowl, can you hear me? You gotta hurry, bud. We’re launching in sub thirty.> Jazz’s staticky voice came in over his comm, and Prowl felt his plating prickle with an unnatural calm.

“You have to help me,” Decimus said as Prowl climbed the ladder up and around the senator, pulling himself up into the tunnel adjacent him. “It’s your prerogative.” 

“It’s not anymore,” Prowl said calmly. Unless Decimus could fit into the tunnel, there was no way he could escape being slagged during the launch -- it would take him too long to climb back down and get outside the radius of the blast. 

“What -- what do you mean?” Decimus asked. 

“You know what I mean,” Prowl said, turning in the tunnel -- which he had ample room for due to his new, smaller size. 

“Prowl --” Decimus growled, lunging for him and latching onto his foot. “Help me, you glorified calculator!” 

“You deserve this,” Prowl grunted through grinding teeth as he tried to shake the senator off. “You deserve to get melted into nothing the same way you melted Praxus into nothing,” 

“I didn’t do that,  _ you  _ did!” Decimus shouted back, clinging desperately. 

<Prowl, sub fifteen! You gotta get out!> Jazz shouted at him through his comms. Seized by a sudden panic, Prowl kicked at Decimus, slamming his foot into the senator’s head repeatedly until he heard the cracking of optical glass and Decimus’s hand finally released his foot. He turned and scrambled away up the tunnel, listening to the sounds of Decimus’s frantic yelling and of the engines firing up. He could feel the heat at his back even though launch hadn’t even been set yet. 

<Prowl --> Jazz’s voice through his comms was drowned out by the sound of the engines roaring in his audials as he lunged up the final ladder that led to the exit hatch -- 

There was a moment of terrifying darkness, in which Prowl could feel the roaring heat licking his feet and his optics shorted out from the light, and then hands on his hands, tugging him, pulling him, and then cool air and the sound of the hatch slamming shut.

“Prowl? Prowl!?” Mirage was shouting.

“He’s alright,” Jazz said, stroking Prowl’s back. “He’s alright. Just a lil singed.” 

“Oh, thank Primus. We need to get strapped in somewhere,” Mirage said, and Prowl felt the saboteur tugging him up as his optics reset. Jazz knocked him off balance again as he yanked on his arm, pulling him out of the maintenance room and into a corridor. Everything was jumbled -- the ship was beginning to violently shake as the engines struggled to fire hard and hot enough to lift its entire mass from the planet’s surface, while the structural integrity was already being tested to the limits by the decepticon assault. Prowl couldn’t stop thinking about the molten nothing that Decimus had become.

“Here! There’s an emergency pod -- we’ll be able to strap in there!” Mirage shouted, and Jazz yanked Prowl’s arm sharply to the left, and then he was slammed by acceleration force into a seat. Emergency locks engaged, pinning him down, and he bit back an involuntary yelp as the restraints bound him in place. 

“It’s alright, Prowl, it’s alright, it’s over, we’re goin’, we’re launchin’,” Jazz had to shout over the sound of the engines. Mirage’s hand found the side of his face, stroking and soothing. 

“Shh. It’s okay. It’ll be over in a minute,” Mirage replied. “We’ll leave it all behind, start over, come back when we’re better.” 

“I don’t know,” Prowl pressed his head back and into Mirage’s hand, grasping for the contact. They could explode at any minute, blasted out of the sky by a single lucky shot. For all Prowl knew Decepticons were already on board -- 

“I don’t care!” Jazz shouted. “I’m gonna pretend it’s gonna work out until it does or die trying!” he added, kicking his feet. The ship regressed from shaking to trembling and finally to a low hum as they escaped Cybertron’s thin atmosphere and entered the vacuum of space. Prowl pulled the release on the chair as the ship took a hard turn, rotating and spinning. Prowl was thrown to the floor, grabbing at the chair. The power fluctuated a moment, and then everything fell still.

“What just --” Mirage was asking as he too pulled the release and helped Prowl back up. The ship’s speakers coughed static, and then Ironhide’s voice hesitantly came through: 

“Well -- we’re off Cybertron, folks, but -- we got launched through some kinda spacebridge at the last second. We don’t know -- where we are, exactly. Seems like we’re intact though -- or will be anyways, uh,” Ironhide coughed. 

“We should get up there,” Mirage said. 

“Mm,” Prowl added. 

“It’ll be alright, Prowl. Bluestreak’s onboard, I triple checked,” Mirage said. “He’s probably worried about you.” 

“Thank you,” Prowl murmured. 

“We’ll live. Don’t worry.” 

“Of course I’ll worry,” Prowl snapped. “My whole -- life is worrying, now.  Our ship is damaged, I have no idea how much fuel we have left, and we are completely lost in space. You are an idiot not to be worried.” 

“No one is shooting at us right now, so I’ll take that as a win,” Jazz replied. 

“And we’ve got Cybertron’s greatest tactician back! We will surely get out of this predicament,” Mirage cheerfully replied. 

“Ever onward, I suppose,” Prowl grumbled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! I hope it payed out okay for you, haha. It got a lot longer than I ever intended and I'm very happy it's done at last!! Thanks for stickin with me ;u;


End file.
